


Clarity

by Azertyrobaz



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azertyrobaz/pseuds/Azertyrobaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara Oswald in Malcolm Tucker's world. Need I say more? It had to be done, so here's my attempt at it. Hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Clarity - Chapter 1**

 

The annual Treasury party. Not that the Treasury did parties only at this time of year. Oh, no. They had the money, after all. Seemed like they were throwing parties every fucking month. And with Christmas less than two weeks away now, nobody was there to rain on their parade and be the voice of reason. "Do you think hosting another party is such a good idea? What kind of message are we sending? Will voters actually believe us when we tell them, 'Well, you know, the Austrian PM was there'". Big deal. There was always a PM going, apparently. Not that it should have mattered to Malcolm, since he was here only because his own PM was present. Not that the PM owned him, really. Clearly, if someone had been looking at things from the outside, it would have looked as though _he_ was owning the PM.

But, frankly, wasn't _one_ actual annual party enough? As in once a year? How many bad jokes could you actually recycle before it became obvious the only real thing you could say came from the back of the cereal box you had been staring at intently that very morning, whilst your enforcer was on the phone with you to tell you to try and not fuck things up at the party? But Malcolm was being overly critical with himself. After all, total disaster had been averted. He had managed to get the PM out before he revealed that breakfast was indeed the most important meal of the day. And that skimmed milk was more healthy than whole milk.

It was barely ten, the party was at full swing, and he was in desperate need of a drink. But alcohol had to wait, he could still spy some influential ministers hanging about. Didn't they have their own press officers to tell them that it was time to go home? And let the kids have their own fun? Because, really, some of the junior staff were in desperate need of a break, if the vodka consumption and flapping arms were any indicators. Thankfully, he didn't give a flying fuck what spectacle they were apparently offering to the nearby hacks. For once, it wasn't his problem. As of now, Keith from Health was his problem. Dear God, didn't he have a wife home to tell him this suit made him look a tit? But the missus was very noticeably absent, given how low his hand was on that young girl's arse. Was that Cathy from the _Standard_ standing in front of them? She looked far too happy for someone who should have been talking to the minister's senior advisor about end of life care reforms. What was that prick telling her? Should he...

"Oi! Malc! Where have you been? And where's your fucking glass? It's Christmas, for fuck's sake."

Jamie had just appeared behind him. A bottle of lager in his hand. By the look of him and his tousled hair, he guessed that the bottle was probably his fourth.

"Did the boss leave?"

Make that sixth, there was no way Jamie would have missed the PM's departure, except if he had been in the bathroom. Which happened after the fifth bottle with Jamie. And yes, he hated himself for knowing that. But as it had been already noted, these kind of parties did happen quite a lot. He didn't think it necessary to inform Jamie of the fact that the PM had indeed left, quite a while ago. And anyway, Jamie was already diverting his line of thoughts somewhere else.

"Poor Clara, why does she have to pull up with creeps like Keith? He must have understood the 'munchkin' thing too literally. He's got no fucking clue what he's in for, though. Can't wait to see her reaction."

He finally paid more attention to the young girl whose poor arse was being fondled by Keith from Health. Well, he may have been fondling her arse a second ago, but now the senior advisor was apparently fondling at thin air, whilst his other hand was busy trying to ineffectively shake off his red-wine soaked tie. Said red-wine had visibly come from the empty glass the girl was still holding. She was smiling. He decided he liked her on the spot.

"Who is she?" he asked, turning once again towards Jamie who was guffawing appreciatively. If guffaws could actually be appreciative in any way, especially when they came from half-drunk adult men.

"You don't know? I thought the great Malc knew all the pretty girls before all the other boys of Whitehall."

"Not this time."

"She's with the fucking rainbow builders. Been there for about six months. I hear good things. And not just because she looks fucking sizzling in that red dress."

"I didn't know they got new advisors at Education."

"I know, they seem to be getting fucking omnibuses of new blood every month or something. They suck them dry faster than anywhere else."

"Well, young blood, that's for sure."

Looking back at her, he still had a hard time imagining her working at the Education Department. She looked 25. Fuck, she probably was.

"So, another Oxbridge genius then." He added with a smirk. She had escaped more wandering hands and was making her way to the bar, probably asking for a fresh glass of red-wine. Given how beautiful she looked, she definitely needed all the liquid courage (and weapon) she could get, he thought. In many ways, this crowd wasn't safer than your average Friday night clubbing scene.

"Clara? No, don't think so. She's French, you know. Used to work for their Education department."

"French?" That was unusual. And interesting, he guessed. More interesting than keeping an eye on Tony from the Home Office who definitely wouldn't make it to the bathroom before throwing up.

"Yeah. Or, you know. Half-French maybe. Clara Oswald. Bill seems utterly infatuated with her. And who can blame him, look at her. Where do you think all the surprisingly sensible ideas in DfES have been coming from, lately? Smart munchkin, this one. Maybe she'll even get them to drop the munchkin thing. And the build your fucking rainbow thing as well."

He could see her now making her way back to some junior advisors who hadn't been purged from her department yet. He had to hand it to Jamie, that red dress was really something: very respectable and classy when you looked up, but criminally short when you looked down. She didn't seem too fond of her high heels, though. Maybe she wasn't used to them. And even then, she was shorter than most of the other women in her team.

"Oi, stop looking at her tits and come and have a drink with me. A proper fucking drink. This piss isn't working, it just makes me want to shout at people more."

His view of her was now blocked by Jamie, who was intent on leading him to the bar. He let him order a gin and tonic he probably wouldn't touch, but his colleague was already halfway through his by the time his eyes found Clara once again.

"Did you see Tony throw up? Nasty. I wonder what he'd been eating for it to be so fucking green."

"Did the hacks get a picture? I'm sure it'll look fucking hilarious next to their piece on the Environment minister's speech."

"Did you know she was gonna make that speech? It sounded like she'd been smoking fuckin' grass or something."

"Maybe she had been. She went completely off script at the end of it. We'll have a proper talk on Monday. Or maybe tomorrow. Or in a few hours. I might be in a need of a shout at the end of this."

The only thing he actually wanted by this time was to go home. And have that proper drink. His own whisky. And fall asleep on his couch to the sound of Miles Davis. Or maybe he could just keep looking at Clara Oswald.

"Are you still fucking staring at her? Well go on, go and talk to her, you big pouf. You've never been shy. I can introduce you."

By this stage, Jamie was on the verge of ordering his second gin and tonic. He knew that he would probably stop after the third, but he also knew that he was just as tired as he was, which didn't mix well with alcohol. He would soon have to forcefully put him in a cab, knowing that he had Sarah and the twins waiting for him at home. Twins. Trust Jamie to never do things the easy way round.

"How are the bairns?"

"Don't change the subject. You never ask me about them."

"I do."

"Not here, you don't. Not at work. Not when you've been staring at a girl with that fucking look of yours. Come on, go, she looks desperate for a big angry Jock to shout at her."

"Do you really know her?" Malcolm asked, actually glad to see that Jamie was slowly becoming too far gone to hear the bashful tone of his voice. He would have been all over him otherwise. But it didn't mean that the younger Scot had stopped being aware of what was happening around him.

"Oh, here goes. Keith on the attack once again. Hope Clara will kick him in the fucking balls, especially with those heels."

Malcolm knew he never would have actually gone and talked to her, but he sure would have liked to have the possibility to do so. Even though this was definitely not the right place for that. And Jamie was right, he never was shy with girls he liked. But that was because the girls he met usually knew who he was before he opened his mouth. And he could rapidly surmise from the way they would be looking at him if he had a shot at taking things further. Luckily (and surprisingly, given his job and reputation) he usually did. But he didn't think Clara knew who he was. Oh, she'd probably heard about him, but he found himself wishing that for once, he could decide to introduce himself on his own terms. And not with a fucking truckload of bitter and fearful remarks sitting on his back, remarks which were probably half-gossip and half-actual facts. Who was he kidding? This would never happen. But then, why was he staring at Keith with what he could only describe as jealousy?

"She doesn't look happy. Come on, Malc. Go and be a fucking gentleman and rescue the poor lass."

"I'm always a gentleman. And she doesn't seem to be requiring any help. Your pal Steve over there, on the other hand..."

He knew Steve worked with Jamie at the Strategic Communications Unit. What he didn't know was why he'd decided to get Jamie away from him.

"Oh, bollocks. I'll go and kick his head in. For fuck's sake, why does he always have to open his big fucking mouth to the _Mail_? Oi! Steve!"

Now that he was alone, Malcolm leaned against the bar, his full glass still in his hand, and observed Clara and Keith carefully. He unconsciously made sure that no one was paying attention to him and think him some sort of old perv (although really, that wouldn't be the worst thing he had been called) and started reading her body language. It was obvious Keith made her feel uncomfortable, in the way that she kept shuffling her feet towards another woman from her group of colleagues. But he could see even from where he was standing that there wasn't any actual fear in her eyes. He probably would have done something if there had been, although this realization gave him pause. She must have thought she had gotten rid of him, but he knew very well that Keith was a fucking pain. God, why wasn't he giving her more space? Couldn't he see how pissed off she was? Was he some kind of masochist? Did he thrive for a wet face to match with his wet tie? He could see how tightly Clara was holding her glass, and he was pretty sure she wanted to throw the wine over his head. The wine _and_ the glass, probably.

Surprisingly, she then turned towards the senior advisor and smiled at him. A polite smile, but a smile nonetheless. Had he been reading things completely wrong? Were they close? He shuddered at the image of them actually being a thing. Surely not. Jamie would have told him. Jamie knew better than anyone who was shagging who in Whitehall, he made it part of his job description (which, to be fair, was indeed part of his actual job, in a way). He'd kill the little bastard if he'd done it on purpose. He had seen the way he was looking at her, after all. But no, that didn't make any sense. What would a beautiful girl like her do with an old fat fuck like Keith? He was more than a decade older than him, and Malcolm felt pervy enough just watching Clara from afar.

Her friend then seemed to be telling her something, and she turned again to face her. And then, just as quickly, they both turned and looked at him. Intently.

 _Fuck_. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Clarity - Chapter 2**

 

She was going to kill Martha. Plain and simple. She couldn't remember now why she had agreed to come and babysit her friend's boss. Surely, another junior advisor from her own department could have done the job. She didn't work for Health. There was no logical reason which explained why she was standing there, with this disgusting man's hand resting precariously close to her arse wearing heels she was desperate to take off. There just wasn't. And two glasses of champagne hadn't helped her come closer to an answer. She had switched to red-wine because she knew she would feel even worse tomorrow if she kept gulping down the fizzy liquid that actually _was_ real champagne for once.

Clara tried to pay more attention to the journalist. Catherine something, she thought. Frankly, she had stopped remembering names about an hour ago, there was just so many people here she _just had to meet, love_. To think that she had actually been looking forward to this party. She had refused to go to most of the ones she had been invited to until now (a surprisingly large number, given her job), but she had heard numerous times that the Treasury parties were the best. Hell, it was Christmas in a couple of weeks, she thought she deserved a break. What she hadn't really thought through was the fact that this definitely wasn't a break from work, since everybody from work was here. Granted, she had never seen most of those people, but then she had only been working for the Department for Education and Skills for five months. She often came in contact with people from the Home Office of course, and some people from the Health Department. But really, apart from the other advisors from her own department and a few people she had recently met here and there before the party, she didn't know anyone.

She tried once more to wiggle out of Mr. Graham's hold but it was no use. Worse, her movements seemed to have encouraged him to slip his hand even lower. She didn't think she would be able to restrain herself if he kept grabbing her like that. Who did he think he was? Yes, he might be Martha's boss, and Martha was possibly the only real friend she had in this country, but that didn't mean it gave him the right to behave like a perv. _Just keep an eye on him, Clara_. She remembered Martha telling her. _The Minister can't take any more flack from the press, and Mr. Graham can get a bit troublesome with journalists._ Troublesome, right. She thought of other words that could be used to describe the Health minister's senior advisor.

She looked desperately around the room for one of Martha's colleagues, who surely would be more suited for this job and would know when to stop Mr. Graham from divulging too much information to the press. Even though she was pretty sure it was too late already, given how many perfect white teeth the journalist was showing. But there was a reason why Martha, her colleagues, and even their minister were absent tonight. The end of life care fiasco. Martha had told her that the government had regularly been trying to push for reforms for years now, and they were once again in hot waters with the press. Which meant she probably wouldn't be seeing the outside of her office at the department for quite a while. Clara was almost jealous: her workload had considerably lightened these past few days, and she feared she actually would be forced to take a few days off around Christmas. Her colleagues thought she was mad, but she knew she wasn't. She was just very focussed on her job, a job she loved. And yes, okay, maybe she was a bit of a workaholic but then so what? Most of the people in this room probably were, too.

 _Oh, God_. His hand was slipping lower. _No. That's it. I'm out._ Let the creep commit career suicide in front of the journalist, she just couldn't care less. _In ten seconds, I'm walking away. I'm going to the bar and to hell with it._ Champagne was available, champagne she would drink. Just breathe, she thought. She closed her eyes, flexed her toes, rolled her shoulders...

 _Un, deux, trois_...

...and promptly lost her footing when her right shoulder rubbed against the guy standing beside her. _Bloody stupid heels!_ she barely had the time to think before her ankle partially gave out and she was forced to break her fall by thrusting both her hands forward, right into M. Graham's chest.

 _Oh_. That was an unexpected result. A welcome result yes, but unexpected nonetheless. She had been set on escaping the advisor's grip and would have probably allowed herself the satisfaction of intentionally stepping on his toes (and then apologise, of course) before walking away. But spilling her red-wine on his tie was an added bonus. A very noticeable bonus. So noticeable that she couldn't help smiling at first.

"Mr. Graham, I'm so sorry, I must have slipped! Oh, this is terrible, I do apologise, your tie..."

"There, there, it's nothing. Look, there's barely a stain, and it will be dry in a minute."

She had to hand it to him, he looked unfazed. He didn't even seem to be entertaining the thought that she might have done it on purpose. How very British, she thought, and smiled once more.

"I'm really sorry, I must be tired, I can't even stand straight. I had a very long week at work and should probably head home, soon."

"Nonsense, it's barely ten. I thought you French knew how to party. Do grace us with your presence a little longer, love. Let me get you another drink."

"It's alright, I'll go myself. There's someone over there I need to talk to about a meeting on Monday, I'll be quick. I'm really sorry about your tie." She added, walking away as quickly as she could with those heels.

 _Well, turns out it wasn't such a bad idea to wear them, then._ She knew she might have overdressed, but she hadn't gone out in a while, and she liked that dress, short as it was. She didn't feel uncomfortable in it, as opposed to the heels, and if she was completely honest with herself, she enjoyed the looks it got her. What she didn't enjoy of course was the liberty Mr. Graham took when he manhandled her.

She had thought the heels would help her feel less diminutive in such a charged environment. She always wore flats at work because she knew how long days didn't equate well with sore feet and backaches. And she didn't mind being among the smallest in her team. It didn't matter in the long run, she had other ways to put her point across than through the help of physical attributes. She was confident in her abilities and her ideas. But here tonight, she felt anything but confident. In fact, she hadn't felt like such an outsider ever since her first day at work in this country.

She ordered another glass of red-wine at the bar. She had ditched the idea of champagne partly because she thought the best solution was perhaps to head home, and partly because the red-wine had turned out being a good ally. She was debating whether she should walk back to Mr. Graham to tell him she was leaving or make a hasty exit straightaway when Emily called after her.

"Clara, there you are! We thought we'd never find you."

The "we" referred to her and Michael, obviously. Those two were joined at the hip. She couldn't for the life of her understand how they managed to function when they were not together. They didn't, let's be honest. This had earned them the nickname of _M & Ems_. Actually, some of her other colleagues had come up with more colourful nicknames, but she decided not to think of them right now, knowing she would need to look at them in the eye at one point. And as annoying as they were, they were better than grabby-arse Graham.

"Come and join us! Sophie was just telling us about last year's Christmas party here. You wouldn't believe what a guy from the Home Office did to her."

I bet I can, thought Clara. Not seeing Mr. Graham anywhere, she decided that listening to Sophie gossiping and spending time with the colleagues she had tried to avoid all evening was better than heading home at ten on a Friday night she had meant to enjoy.

Sophie was already in the middle of another "hilarious anecdote" when she joined the group. Clara stood next to Mary, who was one of the few department employees she felt close to. They had both spent time teaching at one point, before joining the government, which Clara had naively thought to be one of the job requirements to work for the Education sector. Boy, had she been wrong. Obviously, she'd only just started her career as an English teacher in France when she had agreed to join a think tank which then led her to work for the government over there, but she'd still spent much more time in a classroom than most of the other advisors. Her passion was and always would be teaching. And although her career had taken a turn she hadn't really anticipated, a turn she hadn't completely chosen in fact, she felt she was making a difference still, as small as it may be.

Which was why she had a hard time reconciling that fact with the more vacuous aspects of her new job. She knew she was too independent-minded (and bossy, if she was completely honest) to be a good team player. She didn't mind being given orders as long as her opinion was taken into account in the decision making process. She liked sharing new ideas with others and discuss matters that were close to her heart. What she didn't like was what seemed to automatically come with all that, which mostly consisted in fake camaraderie and water-cooler discussions. Working for the French education department hadn't been very different in that respect. But at least over there she could pretend she was somewhere she belonged. Here, she was destined to be an outsider. No matter how hard she tried or how perfect her English was or that technically, she was half-British. She would always be "that French girl".

"Who was that guy?" whispered Mary to her. She knew better than to interrupt Sophie mid-anecdote (there'd be hell to pay, probably in the form of more anecdotes) but she couldn't see the harm in having a quiet conversation.

"Did you see him? The nerve!"

"I only saw you throw your wine at him."

"I didn't throw it, I was pushed. I mean, I lost my balance and I slipped. It was an accident."

"Well, he looked like he deserved it."

"Yeah, but he's Martha's boss, kind of. I promised to look after him, make sure he didn't spill government secrets to the press or something. I think I failed pretty miserably."

"Blimey. Well, at least you're having a better night than Tony. Look over there." Mary said, pointing to a corner at the other side of the room.

"Yuck, it looks fluorescent green even from here! How is that possible?"

"I don't now, but it seems that his troubles aren't over, Jamie's looking at him."

Clara could indeed see Jamie MacDonald standing close to the bar and looking reproachfully in Tony's direction. She had come across Jamie a few times already, in matters relating to press announcements, mostly. She knew that those who'd been working in the department for a while dreaded his "interventions". He did have a colourful vocabulary and his voice did carry quite far, but she'd always had a hard time taking all his words seriously. With his big blue eyes and his syncopated Scottish accent. But then, she had never been on the receiving end of one of his remonstrances. Not yet, anyway.

"Who's that standing next to him?" Clara then asked, noticing a tall, thin man in a nice suit looking in her direction. Not only she hadn't realised that she was being observed, but she also missed the fact that Sophie had stopped speaking.

"You don't know? Clara, that's Malcolm Tucker!" Sophie told her patronisingly. Clara had apparently become the new centre of attention. Once again, she was made to feel as the new girl who was still a bit clueless five months in, the poor dear. But Clara had heard about the PM's enforcer. The mighty Malcolm Tucker whose name was whispered in fear every time something went wrong in a department. And whose stories were apparently the stuff of nightmares.

"I thought he'd be older." Clara said, turning back towards the group. She was met by startled gazes.

"He's _mad_ , Clara. He sacrifices puppies for fun. And by puppies I mean Ministers of the Crown."

Some of them probably deserved it, she thought. And let's not forget senior advisors as well, she added silently in her mind, watching grabby-Graham making his way towards her.

"There you are! I was afraid you'd left without saying goodbye." he said in his sickly sweet voice, standing once again right beside her. She quickly turned towards Mary and rolled her eyes dramatically, but it was Sophie who leaned in to whisper rather loudly in her hear, "Oh, I get it. You like older men!" She then winked and proceeded to gesture first towards Mr. Graham and then towards Malcolm Tucker. Clara blushed, somewhat mortified when Michael sniggered, having heard what she'd said. Mary, bless her, looked just as embarrassed as her.

She quickly gathered herself and chose not to answer, lest she became known as "that French girl who actually had daddy issues". She turned towards Mr. Graham, realising that she'd rather deal with him than with Sophie.

"Mr. Graham, I'm sorry. I guess I got caught up with my colleagues." she smiled nervously, desperately looking for an appropriate subject of conversation which wouldn't give him cause to grab her arse again. STDs, perhaps. He did work for the Health department, after all. Just as she was contemplating this idea, Mary gripped her arm.

"Clara, he's looking at you!"

She followed her colleague's gaze, and stared back at Malcolm Tucker.

"Oh lord, I didn't know Tucker was here tonight. Why is he looking at me like that? What have I done? He can't possibly know about yesterday. I mean, I know I should have..." Clara didn't pay attention to the rest of Mr. Graham jerky, frightened words, but she felt him physically move closer to her. She refrained from pulling away in disgust because she found it highly amusing that a grown man would shy away from a stare that wasn't even directed at him and choose to take shelter next to a girl. She knew that the thin man was looking at her. Right through her, it seemed. His stare froze her in place. She felt a mix of dread and excitement in the pit of her stomach, as though she was facing a wildcat ready to pounce.

He looked down before her and she couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. She hadn't thought that the Mighty Malcolm would shy away from anything. He stared at his shoes as though in shame but quickly looked up once again, perhaps to make sure that she was still looking at him. She was. And then he smiled.

_Fuck._


	3. Chapter 3

**Clarity - Chapter 3**

 

Malcolm had been wrong. It was impossible for him not to come closer, now. She had definitely smiled at him. Although he had to admit he'd been behaving a bit childishly. He did indulge in staring contests with some MPs during the week (when it was required) but he always won those. When he'd realised that Clara Oswald might have felt uncomfortable, he'd dropped his eyes and cursed himself. What the fuck was he playing at? She didn't deserve this kind of treatment, she'd done nothing to piss him off, on the contrary. So why was he staring at her like a fucking predator? But he couldn't resist another look, so he let his eyes find hers once more. She raised her eyebrows and smiled slightly, as though glad he was back in the game. He smiled back. Who wouldn't?

That prick Keith was cowering in apparent fear beside her. He used this fact as an excuse to justify his intent to come closer. He made sure that Jamie was still busy bollocking Steve and didn't need to be physically restrained, then made his way towards Clara Oswald. Unsurprisingly, the group of people around her got a lot thinner very quickly, and by the time he reached her, only Keith and that blonde colleague of hers he didn't know remained.

Clara still had a somewhat mischievous look on her face and seemed utterly unconcerned that a senior advisor more than twice her age was ridiculously trying to use her as a human shield against the righteous anger of the PM's master of spin. Too late to escape now, you fat fuck, thought Malcolm, who'd decided to not let such a golden opportunity slip through his fingers. He was incapable of finding the right words to say to introduce himself to Miss Oswald, but he had hundreds of witty insults at the ready for Keith. This realisation worried him, but only for a second.

"Keith! Just the man I was looking for, how wonderful. I hear congratulations are in order."

"Con-congratulations?" stammered the Health advisor.

"I was told about your daughter. Pregnant, isn't she? That must be a nice feeling. Knowing that you'll be a grandfather soon. So... excited?"

Keith Graham swallowed mechanically but didn't seem to know what to say. However, he did step back from Clara, who hadn't pulled away from his grasp as Malcolm had expected she would once she'd heard him, and was now openly smirking in fact. Her eyes were fixed somewhere behind him, as though she was observing the events from the other side of the room.

"Blythe must be thrilled. Where is she, by the way? I would love to offer my congratulations to her as well."

"My wife couldn't come tonight." Keith finally managed to mutter.

"Oh, pity. Well, do give her my best." Malcolm looked pointedly at the smaller man who quickly understood that he was being dismissed. Keith didn't waste that opportunity and scurried away. But as soon as his back was turned, Malcolm dropped all pretences and stopped smiling. In a frighteningly cold voice he added, as an afterthought, "I heard about that interview you gave, yesterday. The _Standard_? Do have Miss Hadley call me. I'm sure she enjoyed all the attention you gave her tonight, but I might have a word to say to her before she decides to publish anything. Be sure to pass it along, I'm certain she's still here somewhere."

Malcolm could tell from the way Keith dropped his head even lower that he got his message loud and clear: _you're fucked, pal_.

"That prick!" Startled, Malcolm quickly turned his head towards Clara.

"You mean he'd already talked to the journalist?" He didn't have time to comment, she looked furious.

"So all this looking after him, making sure he doesn't spill the beans bullshit was for nothing? I could have kicked him in the balls the minute his hand slipped? I could have..."

Clara then stopped, out of breath but certainly not out of complaints. Her blonde friend's eyes were wide open in amazement. He surmised from her reaction that Miss Oswald didn't usually vent quite so vocally. But he couldn't blame her, he knew how therapeutic venting could be. Also, he'd just basically told her that the chap she had apparently been somehow forced to spend the evening with was an even bigger fucker than she'd thought. But he did find it puzzling that what she took most offence with wasn't the fact that said fucker was a pervy married old twat but that she'd been wasting her time. Her priorities were surprising. She wasn't as naive as he'd thought. A philandering senior advisor who grabbed her arse was of apparent no concern to her. But a philandering senior advisor who grabbed her arse even though there was no ulterior gain for her was a cause for fury. If Malcolm wasn't so tired, he'd probably find this realisation unsettling. In the state of things, he simply felt slightly apologetic.

"Sorry." he told her, although he wasn't exactly sure he meant it.

He wasn't sorry he bollocked Keith in front of a blameless audience. And he certainly wasn't sorry it gave him the necessary excuse to approach Miss Oswald. But he did feel a little sorry for her. Granted, the fact that she'd let Keith grab her like that in the first place was questionable at best, because she didn't appear to him as the kind of girl who'd let herself be used that way. Especially now that he was standing next to her and could hear her. However, that didn't mean she'd deserved any of it. In fact, he felt even dirtier for having ogled her, now. Fuck, she was just a kid for Christ's sake. A kid who had now swallowed the entirety of her wine in one gulp. She was still looking fixedly somewhere behind him. With a frown on her pretty face.

"I'll, huh... get you another glass, Clara?" He had completely forgotten her blonde colleague. And Clara looked as though she had, too.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Thanks, Mary."

"Red wine?"

Clara was about to ask for something else, he could tell, possibly something stronger (which he understood) but she stopped short. She could probably see, just as clearly as Malcolm, that the woman was desperately trying to get away. She looked like she'd never heard anyone swear before, and didn't know how to react. Malcolm thus put her in the "terrified" category.

Long ago, he'd come up with a simple and efficient way to categorise most people he came in contact with. Two groups: obvious contempt or absolute terror. Some could navigate in between. And some (most) went from one category to the other, as time went on. Now that he and Clara were alone though, he found himself at a loss. Which group would she fit in? She'd stopped staring into space and was now looking at him. Shit, he thought. _He_ was the one belonging to the "terrified" category.

"I do need that drink," she told him. She wasn't defending herself and her need for alcohol, she was merely stating a fact.

"Gin and tonic?" he offered jokingly, raising the full glass he'd forgotten he was still holding.

"Yes, please." she answered, smiling. And she took the glass from his hand. And started drinking. _The fucking nerve!_

"I really wanted something stronger. And I'm not sure Mary's coming back with that glass of wine. So, thanks," she then said, handing the glass back to him. She'd only drunk about a quarter of it and hadn't seemed concerned about sharing the same glass as him.

"Keep it. You need it more than me." His words had apparently reminded her of the reason why she'd wanted his drink in the first place. She looked thoughtful.

"Sorry about Keith." Malcolm blurted out. He couldn't help it. He didn't want her to start staring at an invisible spot over his shoulder once again. That was twice he'd said he was sorry, now. And Christmas was still two weeks away! What the fuck was that all about?

"He's a creep, I won't be granting favours to the Health department anytime soon."

Me neither, thought Malcolm. Just as he'd been about to finally do the polite thing and introduce himself, she beat him to it.

"Malcolm Tucker, right?"

"And you're Clara Oswald." she raised her eyebrows at that and smiled a bit self-consciously. She switched her glass to her other hand and shook his. Her grip was cold because of the ice cubes but he was taken by the warmth of her brown eyes.

"Nice to meet you." she added, and looked like she meant it.

_Fuck._

 

 

Clara had been wrong. Leaving the party when she had had the chance half an hour ago would have been a mistake. Yes, she might have done without the peculiar looks on her colleagues' faces, but then she wouldn't have met Malcolm Tucker. She'd never met someone so utterly mercurial: one minute he was the manipulative shouty madman she had been warned about, the next he was an apologetic soft-spoken gentleman. He hadn't commented on her loss of composure but hadn't found an excuse to get away from her either. Unlike poor Mary. _God_ , she'd forgotten how prudish and impressionable she could be. She probably believed all the stories she had heard about Malcolm Tucker. And after witnessing what he'd done to Mr. Graham with just a few chosen words, she certainly had every reason to keep on believing them.

But Clara thought she'd gotten a glimpse of humanity behind Malcolm Tucker's impenetrable façade. She still wasn't sure how he'd meant her to interpret his "grandfather" remarks to Mr. Graham. She knew they weren't _exactly_ directed at her. He had wanted to make the health advisor feel like the pervy old man he was which was thus making her feel like an enabler by not preventing him from touching her arse. And she was fine with that. But she couldn't stop thinking he'd had an ulterior motive. She wondered if he'd intentionally wanted her to make a distinction between himself and Mr. Graham. As though he'd been telling her: "Look, he's even older than me, he's going to be a granddad for crying out loud!"

Perhaps it was his way of apologising for having stared at her like he did just before. His way of acknowledging that he shouldn't have, but that at least he wasn't as old as that other guy. He was probably married as well, she thought. All those men were. But he hadn't behaved inappropriately. Quite the contrary. In short, she didn't know what the _hell_ to think of Malcolm Tucker.

She admitted that taking his glass might have been a bit cheeky. She'd unconsciously wanted to rattle him a little, and see how he'd react. He'd remained calm, if a bit startled. And the drink had felt good going down. The melting ice cubes against her hand had a similar effect as his grey-blue eyes staring at her. And the quicksilver mind she could see hidden behind them felt like the kick of the gin running through her veins.

She should probably join her colleagues again, find Mary to apologise. And she was pretty sure the senior press advisor for the government of Great Britain and Northern Ireland had better things to do than talking to her. In fact, she could see Jamie MacDonald walking towards them. But she wanted him to know her name before they split. She knew she'd be reflecting on the reasons for that later on.

He didn't seem very surprised that she knew his name. But she couldn't help but smile in amazement and pride when he revealed he knew hers. What she hadn't anticipated was the way it would make her feel to hear him say it. The way he pronounced "Clara" with his rumbling Scottish accent triggered a ripple of contradictory feelings inside her. She hadn't heard her name pronounced in such a familiar way since she'd arrived in this country. She couldn't decide whether she wanted him to never utter it again or to never stop uttering it.

 _Fuck_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Clarity - Chapter 4**

 

Clara had a surprise waiting for her when she arrived at work on Monday morning. The rest of her weekend had been quiet and she hadn't heard from any of her colleagues. This wasn't a rare occurrence, but it should have set off alarm bells in her mind. The first thing she noticed was that people were a lot quieter than usual. She shared an office with four other junior advisors at the Sanctuary Buildings and even though she never relished M & Ems gossipy conversations, they were part of the scenery. And they were noticeably absent, today. Even nerdy Julian who was usually grumbling in the background or shouting at his slow computer was surprisingly quiet.

She'd thought something terrible had happened. Something she hadn't heard on the radio that morning. Maybe it'd happened while she was on the tube. Maybe it was an inter-department thing. She didn't think for a second that it had anything to do with Friday night. After all, Julian hadn't even been there. He probably had an alien invasion to prevent at a LAN party or something. Worlds to conquer. Zombies to kill. She wasn't exactly sure what he did during his free time. She didn't really want to know.

Clara sat down, wondering if she should say anything or just wait for one of them to speak up. She put her thermos of coffee on the table and just as she was pressing the ON button on her computer, Emily finally broke the heavy silence.

"Any news from Mr. Graham?"

"Mr. Graham?"

"You know, that guy from the Health Department you were cosy with on Friday."

"I wasn't cosy with..."

Clara was cut off by the sound of her chirping mobile. She saw it was Martha so she let it go to voice mail: she'd catch up with her friend later. But just as she was typing her password on her computer, she rang again. Martha never did that. She always texted. And when she didn't, she left messages. So Clara picked up.

"Hey, Martha..."

"What the _fuck_ did you do?"

She'd never heard Martha speak like that. She rarely ever swore, unlike her. This was bad. Clara put the phone against her shoulder, smiled, and excused herself from the room. Right before she crossed the threshold, she had the distinct impression that all three of her colleagues knew exactly what the call was about. She decided not to linger on that realisation and walked quickly to the emergency staircase, where she knew she could get some privacy.

"What is it, Martha?" she whispered, hating the echoey quality of her voice in this place.

"What happened on Friday? What did you do to Mr. Graham?"

"What did _I_ do?"

"It must have been pretty huge. Why would they send him to North Wales otherwise?"

"Wales?" Clara was vainly trying to not let herself be submerged by Martha's panicky tone. But she couldn't make heads or tails of her words.

"Martha, slow down. I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"I asked you yo keep an eye on him, that's all!"

Clara leaned against the wall, finding it harder and harder to keep her voice down. She'd done nothing wrong, she didn't deserve to be shouted at first thing in the morning, especially by her friend.

"Yes, well, I did. Thanks, by the way. Your boss is a dirty old man. He kept trying to feel me up. So whatever thing he's got to do in Wales, he deserves it."

"He can be a bit heavy-handed in public but he's harmless. And now I've got to explain to the minister why his top advisor has been sent on a rural hospitals survey in the back of beyond! It could take him weeks! And it's not even as though he'd spoken to the press, so there must be something else."

"Wait. He didn't? He didn't speak to the press?"

"Of course he didn't! What aren't you telling me?"

Clara was at a loss. She thought Keith Graham had spoken to the horsey-faced journalist before the party on Friday. So her article hadn't been written. Which meant...

_Oh._

"Clara? You're still there? Are you telling me he spoke to the press?"

"Nope. He didn't. I made sure of that. I don't let people grab my arse for no reason. Believe me. So whatever he did to deserve this... thing, it wasn't on me."

Technically, she wasn't lying. Mr. Graham had left the party shortly before her, she'd made sure of that. And the journalist had also vanished by the time she got a taxi. She told this to Martha, minus the journalist part. They hung up soon after that, and although Clara wished her friend had been a bit more apologetic (after all, she _had_ been doing her a favour on Friday) she also knew that Martha was under a lot of pressure. Her minister was undoubtedly pressing her for an explanation regarding his advisor's departure at such a crucial time for them and their end of life care bill.

She slowly walked back to her office, trying not to think of the role she had played in this debacle. Surely, as she'd told Martha, it couldn't be all down to her. She was a mere junior advisor. She was new. She wasn't very popular amongst her colleagues although her superiors seemed to like her ideas. As she sat down at her desk and finally managed to fill in her password, her phone beeped, announcing the arrival of a text. It was from Martha: "I'm so sorry I shouted. I'll call you tonight!". Clara smiled, feeling better. But it was short lived, given the looks still adorning her colleagues' faces. _What now?_

"Right. This is getting ridiculous. What have I done?"

She looked pointedly at Emily, knowing from experience that she would be the first to speak up.

"The _Standard_?"

"What standard?" Clara asked, puzzled.

"The newspaper, Clara. Remember we were supposed to have this big piece written about my... our project?"

"The yoga thing?"

"Yes!"

Clara had always thought it was a stupid idea. Primary school children didn't need yoga. Frankly, Clara thought they needed karate lessons, it would help them externalize their anger a lot better than through _bloody_ yoga. But she knew it was one of M & Ems pet project. Well, Emily's project, really. Michael had simply followed her directives, as usual.

"What about it?"

"They're no longer doing it. No one's coming. Apparently, one of their journalists was given a formal reprimand and has been prevented from dealing with government matters for a while. So, no article."

Clara didn't see how this concerned her. Unless...

"This journalist, was she called Hadley?"

"Precisely, she's the journalist who was there on Friday. With you and Mr. Graham, actually."

"That's got nothing to do with me, I heard she was about to write something on the end of life care reform. Something she wasn't supposed to."

"Well, I'm not the one who ratted her out!"

Clara rolled her eyes, tired of having accusations thrown at her. It wasn't even 8.30 yet and her coffee thermos still stood untouched next to her keyboard. She was contemplating what to retort, when Michael spoke up.

"Oh, Jamie's in the building."

"Good! Maybe he's here to tell me what the _hell_ happened." Emily stood up, followed by Michael, and left the room. Julian hadn't moved, but he wouldn't look at her either. Clara sighed, and decided she wouldn't waste any more energy on the matter. She had real work to do. Work that didn't involve yoga. Or Wales. Or...

"Miss Oswald! Just the girl I was looking for!"

 _Good grief, what now?_ Jamie MacDonald had just burst in the office, with M  & Ems standing behind him and looking murderous. Clara was actually eager to hear what Jamie had to say. He seemed a lot less threatening then than her colleagues at the moment, which was saying a lot. She decided to stay seated, not wanting to give the others the satisfaction of seeing how apprehensive she actually was.

"Sir?" everybody called him "Jamie", but it was the first time he was directly talking to her and she thought it best to show some deference.

"Don't 'Sir' me lass, I've got good news. You're to meet with Alex Young this afternoon, from the _Guardian_. They're doing something on the new curriculum, and I thought you should do it."

"Right."

"I wrote you some stuff, but I'm sure you'll manage. Gerry can coach you if you've never done that before."

Gerry was the Education chief press advisor. He was hopeless most of the time but nice. Though he smelt of burnt cheese. Spurned on by the look of absolute rage on Emily's face, Clara smiled, and answered calmly.

"I'm good, I've already done things like that. In fact, I have some key points already prepared that I could give. Everything's been vetted, of course."

"Astounding. They'll see you at Kings Place at two. Make us fucking proud, it's time you munchkins got some good press. Oh, and don't mention that bloody yoga thing, it's bonkers."

"Jamie, about that, I was actually supposed to meet with Catherine Hadley this morning. What happened?" Emily interrupted. Bad move, Clara thought. She could see Jamie's ears getting red as he turned his back on her to face Emily. Imminent sign of implosion, she surmised.

"That back-stabbing hack? She's due an in-depth special report on horse shit. I'm sure she'll feel right at home in the stables. You know, perhaps you should go and join her. You could teach yoga to the fucking horses, I'm sure they'd be more receptive than nine year old kids."

Emily swallowed audibly, not having anticipated that she would be the recipient of one of Jamie's infamous bollocking sessions.

"What next? You want to give them herbal tea? Have a fucking Tibetan monk teach them maths? You know what, next time you have one of those ideas, why don't you shove it up your uptight arse doing the downward bloody dog? "

If Emily hadn't been so horrible to her that morning, Clara would have probably felt bad for her at that point. Maybe she would have even interrupted Jamie to ask him something about the interview this afternoon. But she didn't. And in any case, he seemed to be almost done. After a loud "fucking yoga!", he turned back to her.

"You, come with me, we'll go and see Gerry. Make sure the prick knows how to spell your name right for the _Guardian_."

She followed Jamie out, keeping her eyes fixed to the floor, and wondering if she'd ever be able to face her colleagues at some point after that.

"So, got home okay on Friday?"

She hadn't expected him to mention the party. After all, she'd basically run away from him. Well, not really. She'd just decided to let him talk to Malcolm Tucker in private. And she'd had to find Mary to apologise. And make sure Mr. Graham didn't get anywhere near her arse. So she had handed Malcolm his half-empty glass of gin and tonic, smiled to him, and wished him a good evening. Simple, really. Nothing reprehensible at all. So why was Jamie staring at her with a knowing look in his eyes?

"Yeah, no problem. I didn't stay very long after..."

"After you'd finished flirting with Malc."

"What?! No! I... We just talked, that's all."

Clara was floored. First Sophie at the party, then this. It was one thing to be made fun of by her colleagues and seen as an enabler of philanderers or something, but it was another thing entirely when it came directly from the actual press office at Number 10. Jamie was still smiling. But he didn't look like he wanted to mock her or laugh at her expense or make her feel ridiculous. Quite the contrary. Nevertheless, she wanted to make something quite clear.

"I'm not like that, I'm not looking for trouble. I don't 'chat up' married men for the fun of it. I mean, he was nice, but..."

"Married? Malcolm? Who told you that?"

"No one. I just..." Clara blushed, and she knew Jamie could see how flustered she felt. He seemed to be enjoying it, the bastard.

"Well, rest assured love. The only married man you 'chatted up' was grandpa Keith. I'm sure he's enjoying his trip to the countryside, by the way. Hope he didn't forget his fucking wellies."

If Clara hadn't been so nervous about the flirting with Malcolm thing, she'd have probably asked him to elaborate on that. Had she played any role in the decision to send the advisor to Wales? What about the _Standard's_ journalist? _God_ , she hoped not. Even though she felt they both deserved what they got.

"I'll just tell Malcolm you didn't mind speaking to him, then? Especially now that you know he's not married or anything."

Jamie looked very happy with himself. Clara felt more scared than she'd ever been in his presence. _Why did Gerry's office have to be so far away?_ Suddenly, Clara stopped in her tracks, having come up with another troubling realisation.

"About the not-married thing. I wasn't, you know, fishing for information about your boss, just now. I was not fishing in any way. No fish, no water, nothing."

"Of course not, lass," Jamie answered, patting her shoulder in a reassuring way that didn't reassure her at all.

"Let's find Gerry, yeah? Does he still smell of melted cheddar?"

Clara laughed, despite herself.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the story so far. Don't hesitate to post a review if you have any comments. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Clarity - Chapter 5**

 

Malcolm Tucker hated surprises. Especially on a Monday morning. So he made sure to avoid them at all cost. Which was why his work week never really stopped. Weekends were a foreign concept to him. Granted, he rarely was compelled to physically move to Number 10 on Sundays for instance, but Number 10 never left him, it was always there in his mind.

He woke up as he usually did on a Saturday morning: on his couch, still half-dressed, the rhythmic clanking of his turntable echoing in the background. The tone arm, having nowhere to go now that the record was over, made this fact known with a sound that was strangely reminiscent of a heartbeat. He'd always found it soothing and usually fell asleep without turning the player off.

Although he'd arrived home late - early, really - he hadn't been in the mood for some Miles. He'd selected records he hadn't played for a while, something less nostalgic, less _blue_. He'd been surprised at this decision. He'd just let his hands slide over the smooth cardboard sleeves and picked it up almost immediately. Dizzy Gillespie. Maybe his thoughts had been less broody than usual. He couldn't really explain it. And dwelling on the reasons would only shatter this happy bubble, so he didn't.

He'd managed to get Jamie in a cab at a reasonable hour, and he'd even received a text from Sarah to thank him. Jamie never texted, but his wife did, probably because the younger Scot didn't know they could also be used to communicate. After all, he was more of a _vocal_ person. Typed messages would never convey the same level of information. Or the same depth of feelings.

Malcolm only switched off one of his two phones when he went home with the firm intention of sleeping. The phone which always stayed on was for emergencies, and few people had the number. Sam and Jamie, of course. One or two journalists he trusted and a handful of special advisors at Number 10. It rarely ever rung but when it did, he knew it was bad news, so he always kept it charged. He'd even put Chopin's _Funeral March_ as a ringtone (following a bet he'd lost to Jamie). He then checked his BlackBerry and started going through the various texts, messages and emails while putting the kettle on for his morning coffee.

By the time he had drunk his first cup and eaten the least revolting looking banana he'd found atop his fridge, he'd answered the most urgent texts and emails. He'd kept the messages for last, knowing from experience that they were both the least important and the most likely to put him in a premature bad mood. He then showered, changed, and went out.

It was 7.15. The pool would open in 15 minutes so he walked briskly. This was the only luxury he allowed himself during the weekend: one hour of uninterrupted swimming. A certain advantage of living in an affluent neighbourhood was that he could count on such facilities being available to him provided he paid a (scandalously expensive) membership fee. He didn't mind. And this was and always would be the only kind of club he would subscribe to.

He'd always loved swimming but only started doing it regularly a few years ago, when turning forty proved that the lager-curry diet no longer cut it if one wanted to reach sixty in somewhat decent shape. Malcolm couldn't for the life of him picture himself at sixty, but he was vain enough to realise that he had to do something if he still wanted to fit in his favourite Paul Smith suits. He'd quickly found out that swimming had other advantages: he knew he only had the time to swim for one hour, and once he'd found his rhythm to do the crawl three-months in, this meant stopping after 50 laps. But reaching this distance meant counting laps, and counting laps meant he couldn't think about anything else, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Nothing could get to him inside the pool: no Number 10, no pesky MPs, nothing. If the outside world did interfere, it meant he'd lose count, which angered him and usually meant being late as well. So he'd decided to concentrate only on the movements of his arms and legs, his regular breathing, and the number of his laps. And it was heaven.

The pool was for members only every morning until 9. And then again in the evenings between 8.30 and 10. The few people he saw there at this time were like him: they only came to swim and didn't look that very thrilled about it. He was pretty sure he recognised some of them, and he could tell some people recognised him in return, but there seemed to be an implicit agreement that no questions would be asked nor comments made. This was a sacred place. People came there to be left alone and forget the outside world for a while. Malcolm didn't know if this made the pool the happiest place on Earth or the saddest.

When he got home afterwards he showered again (even in luxury pools you could never really eradicate the smell of chlorine), put on a suit, filled a thermos with tea and drove to Number 10. Traffic being good on a Saturday morning, he was at his desk around 9.30. He put out a few inter-departments fires via phone, signed a mountain of documents, refused to speak to half a dozen journalists about yesterday's Environment Minister's speech, and by 3PM he had finally come up with what he was going to do to Keith Graham. He had to admit, he was rather proud of himself. He couldn't help but smile, even though he knew his plan could only be really implemented on Monday morning, and reached for a second satsuma.

Once home that night with a celebratory curry he'd picked on the way in, he thought over his plan some more, another record of Dizzy playing in the background and the TV news turned on mute. It certainly wasn't his most vicious or Machiavellian scheme to date. Really, it was downright harmless compared to the ones he'd discarded. But for once, he'd decided to listen to that nagging voice at the back of his head. The one that told him that going too far would harm innocent bystanders. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what had made him come to this realisation, but he knew the joyful trumpet notes had something to do with it. That and the memory of a red dress that was just a bit too short.

Sunday was spent in a similar fashion, minus the trip to Number 10. He also had the disagreeable task of going to the shops. Since he always relegated this outing to Sundays, it meant driving quite far away. Fortunately, his blessed iPod with the volume turned on too high prevented him from acting out on his impulses to strangle half the people blocking the supermarket aisles with their alarmingly full trolleys.

He made a few strategic calls to people in the Health department to pave the way for Monday morning during the afternoon and then spent an hour toying with the idea of calling Jamie. He usually always informed him of such decisions (it was his job, after all). They often devised those kind of plans together. But it felt strangely personal this time. And after all, he would find out early on the next day. So he wrote a few lines for tomorrow's 8.30 briefing sipping a glass of Cragganmore and went to sleep early and in his bed, for once.

Monday morning was the usual nightmare of traffic and incorrect news announcements on the radio. Malcolm knew he'd probably get to work quicker if he took the tube, but it would deprive him of the pleasure of shouting at other drivers, pedestrians, cyclists, radio speakers and the odd press officer on the phone.

"No, she won't get that interview with the _Standard,_ " he tried to explain calmly to Gerry Smith, the Education chief press advisor. The one who apparently had a passion for cheese only equaled by Wallace & Gromit.

"Because I said so, that's why! Catherine Hadley is probably MIA by now, she's been sent to some godforsaken region ending in -shire to write a piece on fucking manure," Gerry didn't need to know that Malcolm had spent twenty _delectable_ minutes with the _Standard_ editor on Friday night just after the party demanding he do just that if he wanted to be kept abreast of future developments at Number 10. The editor had even been tempted to sack her, but Malcolm had judiciously suggested he kept her for the shitty jobs, literally in that case.

"Well I don't know, you tell her whatever you want! She's a big girl. Wait, was she the one with the yoga thing? In that case, don't tell her anything, yeah? Good." Malcolm hung up, noticing he had another call. It was Jamie.

"Keith Graham?"

Jamie rarely needed to introduce himself on the phone. Or say hello. Especially to Malcolm. He usually went straight to the point.

"Yeah?" Two could play at this game, after all.

"Anything to say?" Jamie sounded more amused than pissed off, which wasn't necessarily a good sign.

"Can this wait until I get here? Or wait, are you telling me he can't read a map where the names of the villages start with ten fucking consonants?"

"Why is it always Wales with you? Can't it be Durham or something for once?"

"The weather report seemed to indicate more rain over there. And I've been told there are floods."

"I'm surprised you didn't have him sacked as well. You had every fucking reason to, if you'd wanted to. I think you're going soft on me in your old age."

"No sexual innuendo this early in the morning. I'll be there in five." The car park was almost in view.

"Sexual innuendo, yeah, you can say that again. I know exactly what it's about. You're fooling no one, you big pouf. Ta ta."

Malcolm sighed and parked his car. He'd thought Jamie would be peeved because he hadn't elected to let him know about his plan regarding Keith. But this was different. He sounded... _gleeful_ . What hellish development did _this_ entail?

He got his answer a few minutes later, when he found a bouncy over-caffeinated Jamie visibly waiting for him near his office.

"Morning darling, how was your weekend? Did anything happen on Friday after I left that I should know about? Anything to tell me? Yes? No?"

Malcolm decided that his first stop wouldn't be the office. He needed to lay his hands on whatever miracle potion Jamie seemed to be running on. He was pretty sure neither the cafeteria nor the Starbucks two streets over had it. He wisely kept his mouth shut and stared at him in a way that he hoped would make him stop asking questions. For many people, this particular look signalled the pressing need to reach the nearest bomb shelter.

"Shall I venture a guess? Does it start with a 'C' and doesn't spell 'cunt'? Oh no, wait, it does actually!"

But after all, Jamie wasn't his closest colleague because he did a good Tigger impression. Albeit a very _rude_ Tigger. Malcolm knew it was no use, he would have to answer him at some point.

"Nothing happened on Friday except me calling Vince at the _Standard._ "

"Yeah, heard about that. Nice touch. But gone are the days when the mighty Malcolm would have burnt the fucking hack at the stake."

"She's young. I thought she still had time to change her game." They had now reached his office, where Malcolm expected they would split. But Jamie seemed intent to bounce around these particular four walls as well. Seeing the large pile of messages already waiting for him on his desk, he thought it best to go straight to the point and be done with it.

"I mean it, nothing happened. And I decided to send that prick Keith to Wales because I fucking felt like it. Health has enough problems as it is. Even _I_ couldn't come up with a suitable reason to sack him that wouldn't bite the department in the arse."

"Bollocks. You're full of shit, my friend. The sooner you admit it, the sooner I'll leave this office."

Jamie crossed his arms nonchalantly and sat in one of the armchairs facing his desk. _The little fucker_.

"For fuck's sake Jamie, this isn't secondary school. Will you fuck off to your office and shout at some minions?"

"I'm gonna have to say it, then. You did all that because of her. Clara Oswald. You didn't want her to be collateral damage in case your executions didn't work according to plan. If you'd killed them both, she'd have been blamed in some way. I didn't know you were such a fucking romantic, Malc."

Malcolm sat at his desk and started rifling though the urgent messages he'd have to address before the 8.30 briefing. He tried to ignore the gleeful man in front of him but had a hard time concentrating on what was written. He hadn't even admitted to himself that his decisions might have been influenced by the young Education advisor, so how could he admit it to Jamie?

"It's okay, Malc. I get it. You've been pretty fucking miserable lately, you need a bit of that."

He raised his eyes in surprise, wondering if he'd been voicing his thoughts about Clara out loud. Perhaps his silence had been answer enough. He usually always had the upper hand in such exchanges. Was he that transparent? This gave him pause, and he felt a pressing need to justify himself.

"She's pretty, that's all. I might have been slightly influenced by that fact, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of doing my fucking job."

"I never said that, and she's more than pretty. And you know, I don't think you were the only one making eyes."

"Yeah, probably every other fucking person in the room." Malcolm felt a pang of regret at that. He might never get the opportunity to talk to her again and he'd behaved like a right tit. Staring at her like a fucking unhinged stalker.

"No, I meant her, you pillock. _She_ was also making eyes at you."

"Fuck off, she wasn't. Now get out of here, you're boring me." Malcolm stood up, intent on showing Jamie to the door. But he wasn't budging.

"I'll prove it to you. I'm on my way to the Sanctuary Building. Gerry summoned me, I wonder why. You and your fucking nuptial dance, or whatever that is." He had finally risen up from his chair, and was walking towards Malcolm, a look of resolution on his face, now.

"Don't you fucking dare. There's nothing to prove. Now, get." Malcolm hoped he didn't look worried. _Why would he look worried?_ But he probably was.

"It's okay, I've just thought of something. You know this _Guardian_ interview? I'll give it to her. See what she's worth, yeah? Then if she's as good as I think she actually is, I'll start composing your fucking wedding invitation cards. Ta ta for now."

Malcolm laughed, despite himself.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! My exams now being over, I should be able to update a lot more regularly.

**Clarity - Chapter 6**

 

She was going to kill Jamie. Clara realised that since she'd started working for the Education Department, she'd had more murderous thoughts in the span of five months than she'd ever had in her entire life until then. This probably wasn't healthy. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd just lost a couple of years from her lifespan in the last hour. Why hadn't Jamie told her that this interview was so important? And that half the staff of the _Guardian_ would apparently be present? She was proud of the fact that she hadn't lost her cool and managed to stay - mostly - on topic, but she couldn't help but notice that her hands were still shaking. She was holding the folders she had brought with her too tightly. In the end, she hadn't really used her notes, since she knew the proposed curriculum almost by heart. What she hadn't anticipated were the questions relating to her own point of view as a new advisor in the Department. And as a former teacher. She had been terrified at one point that they were going to ask her about her work for the French government. Or about her precipitated departure. But thankfully, there hadn't been any questions on that subject.

She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. The interview was over, the journalists had seemed pleased with her answers - which could be a bad thing, she knew - and although some of the questions had forced her to step out of her comfort zone and to actually voice her opinion (an opinion that might not be shared by the rest of her department), she'd survived. Hopefully, her dignity - and her reputation, whatever it was - were intact. She could deal with the consequences later. The most important thing was that they didn't seem to know much about her past, apart from her short career as a teacher and the fact that she was half-British. That had been a welcome change: the fact that for once she was half-British first and half-French second. Perhaps they had expected her to have a weak command of the English language. Or that she'd have a strong accent. Or that she would show up wearing a beret and a striped shirt with a _baguette_ under her arm and a bottle of red wine in her hand. Maybe she should have.

Next time, she thought, smiling, finally feeling better. She couldn't believe the day wasn't over, yet. Martha's phone call and Jamie's appearance at the Sanctuary Buildings this morning seemed very far away. She knew she'd probably look back on this interview experience fondly, at some point A _later_ point. After all, although it had been her first big interview here about her job, it wasn't exactly the first time she'd done something like that. But she preferred not to focus too much on those past experiences. She'd come to this country to start anew. This interview was just one step in that direction. A crucial step she knew she could now replicate if necessary.

She finally reached the lifts. Just as she was about to press the button, she felt a presence beside her. She turned quickly and found herself face to face with, _but of course_ , Malcolm Tucker, who actually seemed just as surprised to see her.

"I thought you'd already left."

_Wasn't too big on hellos, then._

"Yeah. Got a bit lost," she lied. She would never admit that she'd had to sit for a little while after the interview before she felt comfortable enough to leave the building without noticeably shaking.

"The building's pretty big," he commented, apparently aware that she might not be telling the truth but not caring either way.

"Wait, you knew I was here? For the interview, I mean?" she'd only now realised that he hadn't questioned her presence in the building.

"Of course. What do you think?" he said in a somewhat cold voice he probably reserved for slow people. _Most people_ , _then._ She felt a bit chastised, and tried not to show it. But once again, he seemed capable of reading her perfectly and added in a gentler tone: "It went well, nice job."

She started, and finally turned fully towards him.

"You were there? I didn't see you. Were you..."

He smiled slightly, looking as though this situation was procuring him more fun than it should.

"Of course not, but Alex just told me."

Of course he did, thought Clara, feeling herself blush self-consciously. She turned back towards the bank of lifts and they stayed silent, waiting for one to arrive. When nothing seemed to be happening, he said in a still infuriatingly cool tone: "You know, I'm sure it would go a lot quicker if you actually pressed the button and not just stared at it."

She refrained from giving him the satisfaction of cursing at him, and pressed the button angrily more times than were really necessary. It arrived quickly with a soft _ding_ , and they both went in. He pressed the correct button for the lobby and once again, she stopped herself from commenting on his functioning arms, which he could have used to call the lift himself earlier.

"When did you learn about this interview?" she eventually asked, feeling that she was entitled to know this at least.

When no answer came, she turned towards him and rested her back against the cold side of the lift. She could see he was debating what to answer.

"This morning. It was Jamie's idea to give it to you," he finally said. She didn't know why this information seemed to have cost him so much to reveal. "But it went fine."

"You already said that," she snapped back, unsure why. She guessed her apprehension at the interview hadn't completely left her yet. But Malcolm didn't seem to mind being snapped at, she guessed it happened often. She still felt slightly chastened and refrained from asking him why he was here, exactly. It wasn't her place to ask or to know.

When they reached the lobby in silence, he let her exit the lift before him, and just as she was wondering how she would politely make her departure known without blurting out half of the questions she desperately wanted to ask him, he beat her to it.

"Are you going back to the Sanctuary Buildings?"

"Huh, yes. Still got some work to do today." She actually desperately wanted to go home and regroup - perhaps with the help of a glass of wine or two - but it was not even four, yet. She wasn't lying when she said she still had work to do and she knew she had to face Emily about this morning. Better to deal with it today than tomorrow and not let her have time to sharpen the knife she probably wanted to lodge between her shoulder blades.

"Want a lift? I've got a driver waiting."

Malcolm was looking at her expectantly. She felt as though this was his olive branch. Even though he hid it pretty well, he seemed to be feeling a bit guilty about something. And she guessed this something had to do with the nerve-wracking interview.

"I thought I'd...walk," she answered truthfully, knowing that since she couldn't go home yet, walking was the next best thing to gather her thoughts. She'd come by tube, and knew she could have taken a taxi back, but she didn't want to admit - least of all to herself - that even five months in, she still hadn't really grasped the concept or the know-how of haling a cab in London. This just wasn't something people did a lot in Paris. So she'd taken to walking everywhere when she could in the city, and she enjoyed it.

"In this weather?" he asked, with that annoying half-smirk of his.

So it was raining. Quite a bit. And it was the middle of December. So what?

"Yes," she replied simply, as though he had no reason to question her motives. She had her pride, after all. She wasn't a damsel in distress who needed rescuing. As tempting as that rescue was at the moment.

"I just thought you'd wanted to ask me about the interview," he added in a similar, matter-of-fact tone.

 _The bastard._ He knew that would trigger a reaction from her. She _did_ want to ask him about the interview. And about the Keith-in-Wales thing. And the journalist-reporting-on-manure one. Or if Jamie had told him anything about their (non) conversation this morning regarding his marital status. Or what the _hell_ Friday night had all been about. Nothing, really.

"Sure, then. Thanks." So she was weak. She already knew that. And maybe some answers would indeed be nice, even though she was absolutely certain she wouldn't _dare_ ask half the questions she wanted to.

Sitting next to him in the back of the luxury saloon car, Clara was once more reminded that Malcolm Tucker was actually quite an important figure in the government. And that perhaps she should be a little more grateful that he'd offered to drive her back to the Education Department. Granted, the Sanctuary Buildings were kind of in the same direction as his, but still. As a mere junior advisor, she didn't often get the chance to travel through London in such surroundings or such company. Even though said company was rather silent at the moment, which Clara perceived as unusual. Malcolm was holding his BlackBerry and staring at it with such intensity that if the thing had been sentient - and some people claimed electronics were, after all - it would have rung or exploded out of sheer fear.

 _Didn't feel like talking either, then_.

Clara surmised that he expected her to ask questions. But now that she was alone with him - the driver seemed totally absorbed by his radio show at the front and didn't pay any attention to them - she didn't know where to start. Or whether she _should_ actually start. Realising that the drive would only take about 20 minutes, she decided to risk it. She was pretty sure this wasn't a situation that would present itself again in the near future. If ever.

"Why did Jamie MacDonald had me doing the interview? There were more qualified people at the the Department. A lot more qualified." As was apparently always the case when it came to Jamie, Malcolm took his time answering, his phone still being unresponsive.

"It was time to shake things up a bit. Education always sends the same old boring fucks to the _Guardian_ , thinking that they don't have anything to prove since the newspaper will probably back whatever stupid drivel they come up with, as long as it's not too fucking cuckoo."

Clara guessed yoga was probably something for the "too fucking cuckoo" category.

"It was a risk, but it paid off, Jamie was right. You were articulate but not in a condescending Ox-fucking-bridge way, didn't bang their heads over with vomit-inducing rainbow analogies and managed to stay in line."

She was surprised he got all that from the short talk he had with Alex Young at the end of her interview. Perhaps they talked in codes. Clara wondered what it could be instead of focusing on the compliments that were probably hidden somewhere in his speech.

"And you look definitely better than Bill or Gerry with his giant fucking Gremlins-gone-bad ears, so it helps," Malcolm added as an afterthought.

"Thanks," she answered, blushing slightly, even though once more the compliment wasn't exactly one. Just as she was phrasing in her mind a way to broach the Keith subject, her own phone rang.

"Shit, sorry," she couldn't stop herself saying, rummaging in her bag for the blasted thing. She had turned it back on after the interview, but didn't think it would disturb her. Seeing that it was Martha and fearing it was some more bad news, she picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Clara, hey, I thought I'd leave you a message, but since you're there, got a few minutes?"

She hesitated, then realised it was probably the only way she'd manage to mention the dreaded subject in Malcolm's presence, so she took the plunge.

"Is it about Mr. Graham? Any news? Has your boss calmed down?"

Clara then surreptitiously looked in Malcolm's direction to see his reaction but, _damn it_ , he was on the phone as well now, and wasn't looking at her. She could hear him talk rapidly but couldn't catch his words.

"No, it's not about that. Well, yes, in a way. I wanted to apologise again for this morning. The Minister was apoplectic at first, but now he's kind of realised it's not necessarily a bad thing that Graham left, he could be a bit volatile. So, yeah. Whatever happened, whether you had anything to do with it or not, unconsciously or otherwise, it's all good. And I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Clara answered truthfully, no longer really minding that she might have played a part in the scenario, since it had apparently turned out okay.

"So drinks on me? Tonight? I should be able to get away early, for once."

"Thanks, but it's going to be tough for me, tonight. My work had to be pushed back today for reasons I'll tell you about later but I still got to do it. I rather stay late today than have it pile up."

"Oh, a mystery, I quite like that. Perhaps it has something to do with the rumours I heard."

"What rumours?" Clara jumped in defensively.

"It's nothing, really, don't worry. Just stupid stuff. You sure you don't want to meet at the pub? I don't mind if it's late, I owe you one for Friday night. And for this morning. I'll buy you those awful crisps you like so much and that blasted Irish stout." Martha really seemed to want to make up for her actions, and Clara felt bad letting her down.

"Sorry, there's nothing I would want more tonight than drinking Guinness and eat salt & vinegar crisps, but I'll have to pass. I'll probably have to stay until 9 or something, maybe later. I think I'll only feel like taking a quiet walk with the Doctor once I'm home. But let's go out soon, yeah?"

They hung up soon after that, and Clara, thinking Malcolm was still on the phone, noticeably jumped when he started talking.

"Guinness and salt & vinegar crisps?"

Clara wanted to be angry at him for having listened on her conversation, but she hadn't actually been whispering, thinking he was also on the phone, which he apparently hadn't been all that time. So she decided to give him a cheeky answer, seeing that they had almost arrived at her workplace anyway.

"Yes, I'm a cheap date, really."

 She expected him to be startled by her familiarity perhaps, or make a joke as well, but she realised he actually looked pissed off. A bit mean, even. As though she had done something unbelievably stupid and deserved his ire. But she hadn't.

"As a doctor, I'm sure he could certainly be more considerate."

A doctor? What was he on about? _Oh, he thought..._ But Clara didn't have time to correct his false assumption, he was apparently on a roll.

"I certainly hope the interview didn't fuck up your social life too much. I didn't know the Education Department had so much to do at this time of year anyway, or needed that many advisors."

 _God_ , he really lashed out when he was on the back foot. She was catching her first glimpse of a Tucker rant - one that was directed at her - and she was amazed at the rapidity at which he'd come to his conclusion, incorrect as it was. She knew she'd spend time later on wondering on the reasons.

"It's my dog," she finally cut him mid-diatribe, pissed off as well, now.

"What?"

"The doctor you heard me mention in a private conversation. That's the name of my dog. Not that it's any of your business."

Clara thought this would put an end to their discussion, and hoped they would finally reach Westminster Abbey. She definitely should have walked. The rain and the cold didn't bother her, it always rained anyway.

"Doctor? What, has your dog fucking time travelled or something?"

The man was infuriating. To think she'd actually found him interesting on Friday. Turns out he was a just a plain old knob.

"This dog is the most precious thing that I have. And you don't get to mock me for that, no matter how ridiculous you might think it is. Now, can you ask your driver to drop me off? I'm almost there, and I feel like walking the rest of the way."

She'd never seen him look so contrite, but she didn't take the time to focus too closely on that realisation, since he did precisely as she'd asked.

"Thanks for the lift," she said in a voice that she hoped wasn't too shrill - but probably was - before closing the door. She wouldn't let the last few minutes shatter her happy mood. Especially since she knew she now had to deal with Emily back at the office. She walked resolutely the three hundred yards that separated her from the Sanctuary Buildings, not taking the time to open her umbrella. The rain felt good against her face.

Three hours later, sitting at her desk and typing away at her computer in the quiet office, she was able to admit to herself that she had overreacted in the car. Malcolm Tucker wasn't to know that her dog was a touchy subject. She'd apologise the next time she saw him. _If_ she saw him. Maybe. For now, she needed to focus on her work. She expected she still had about a couple of hours' worth. She didn't really mind, especially since she was alone in the office. There were other people working in the building of course, but she had the room all to herself. Clara had managed to earn a few precious appreciation points from her colleagues by suggesting she would complete some boring paperwork that had been sitting in the virtual in-tray for a while. Emily had seemed non-plussed, but Clara knew she'd at least avoided having her tea poisoned tomorrow. She'd just have to keep on granting her colleagues small favours until things went back to normal. Even though this particular small favour seemed to take forever. It was tedious to say the least, and she'd probably see double tomorrow.

Just as she was contemplating another trip to get some tea, there was a knock on the door.

"Miss Oswald?"

"Yes?"

She was surprised to see Danny, one of the young interns who sometimes stayed late to do odd jobs around the office carrying a parcel.

"A courier left that for you downstairs, Miss."

They sometimes got memos delivered by couriers, but not when it was close to eight at night. Danny looked just as puzzled as her but, being so well-behaved, he left the room after handing the parcel over. Or perhaps he was afraid it would explode. It looked like a take out bag, Clara realised. And clearly addressed to her. She sighed, so fed up with her work that an anthrax panic actually seemed like an entertaining distraction, and opened the bag.

At first, she didn't understand why she'd received such items. But when she saw the plain business card, she started laughing. _Some girls get flowers, I get Irish beer and crisps. He's bloody perfect._

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Clarity - Chapter 7**

He was going to kill Jamie. Surely his bairns could survive without him. Sarah was a great woman, after all. And it was always the dads who fucked things up, his was a prime example. The little twat had of course elected not to tell him that the interview he was giving to Clara Oswald was happening _today_ , when he himself had to spend the better part of the afternoon at Kings Place. Something Jamie had definitely been aware of, since he had planned the whole meet-and-greet-the-new-fucking-team at the _Guardian_ himself. And now he'd royally fucked things up with the young advisor, _again_. And this time there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that he'd never see her again. Sure, he might bump into her or catch a glimpse of her at some godawful Westminster thing, but she'd stay the fuck away from him. There would no longer be any charged staring contests, or whatever the _hell_ those were.

Sitting in the back of the car that was taking him back to Number 10, Malcolm acknowledged that it was probably for the best anyway. She was distracting him. Preventing him from doing his job properly. For fuck's sake, even Jamie had noticed. What next? He was going to buy her flowers to apologise? That would be a sight for sore eyes: him delivering roses to Clara Oswald at the Sanctuary Buildings. Would she even like roses? he wondered. He wasn't sure she was the type. Or maybe red roses. Definitely not pink ones, though. _Fuck_ , this needed to stop, this was getting ridiculous. He wanted to blame Jamie for that, too. He was the one who'd had planted all those 'romantic' ideas inside his head. He would never have come up with such gag-inducing bullshit on his own.

So yeah, okay, he'd behaved like a prick with her. So _fucking_ what? This wasn't a recent development in his behaviour with other people. Did she have to parade her social life inside the car like that? How the fuck was he supposed to know people went absolutely bonkers with their choices of pet names? _God_ did he feel like shouting. And not at an inanimate object. He'd have to find a living, breathing human being on the way to his office to bollock. Too bad if that turned out to be Jamie. He was actually on the verge of starting an argument with his perfectly nice and obliging driver when the car stopped. He mumbled a word that was a cross between "thanks" and "fuck", fumbled with his seatbelt for a good ten seconds in which he had time to plan ten different executions, and got out.

Maybe he exuded a special kind of smell or aura when he got into one of those ferocious moods. Maybe there was a fire alarm of sorts signalling his presence at Number 10 that everybody could hear but him. In any case, he didn't come across one tosser as he made his way to his office. He'd wisely decided years ago that it was probably best if he refrained from insulting the police guards posted at the different entrances to Number 10. Especially the ones armed with machine guns. Even Sam was nowhere to be seen. Although he didn't think he would have shouted at her. He rarely ever did, after all. But he did find a nice pile of messages waiting for him on his desk written in her neat handwriting.

Dealing with the messages proved sufficiently therapeutic for now. Though the poor press advisors he got on the line would probably need to get their hearing checked by an ENT specialist at one point in the near future. He had a couple of junior ministers due for a visit next, and Sam presented him with a sandwich and a fresh cup of tea shortly before their arrival. He had indeed missed lunch, and he could see on his PA's silent but reproachful face that she attributed his mood to lack of food. She was probably partly right, but still clever enough not to open her mouth in his presence at a time like this. She'd known him for a while, after all, and was particularly gifted at reading him. For the hundredth time that month, Malcolm made a mental note that he needed to get her a raise.

Once the tea, sandwich and junior ministers had been disposed of - unsurprisingly, the ministers had been the most nutritious - he felt calm enough to call Jamie without eviscerating him on the spot. He did have a valid, work-related reason to summon him to his office, but he was conscious of the fact that they wouldn't be talking about that. He wanted the whole Clara thing to be the furthest thing from his mind, but it just wouldn’t budge from its forefront. He hoped Jamie would prove so _fucking_ annoying with his Clara-this and his Clara-that, that his fed up brain would give up on the subject altogether and free some much needed space. He knew there wasn't any room in his over-taxed mind - or life - for a short bossy brunette, but it was another thing to have said mind understand this predicament and agree to let go.

Jamie arrived as he usually did, with a spring in his step, and visibly carrying the required files Malcolm had asked him to bring.

"So, what did I tell you? Just got Alex Young on the phone, he said Clara was... What the fuck happened to you?" the younger Scot asked, noticing quickly that his boss was still in quite a dark mood.

"Your fucking plan is what happened to me. Why didn't you tell me her interview was today? You _meant_ for me to bump into her there, didn't you?"

Jamie remained silent, for once. Malcolm could see that he was trying to understand the situation without having to actually ask him about it. Safer this way, after all.

"And you can drop the fucking files on the desk."

"Did she say anything to you?" Jamie finally asked.

"About what?"

"About what I might have told her this morning."

"What the fuck are you on about? No, I messed things up as usual, but it's your fault. Stop trying to set me up with her or whatever the hell it is you're trying to do, it's not worth it."

"Of course it is, you old cock. You've been miserable ever since that Kelly Grogan thing."

"Jesus Christ, that was almost a year ago, would you drop this? I can take care of myself and my own miserable life, fuck you very much."

Malcolm stood up, suddenly feeling like walking. He took his time circling the office, spending a few seconds touching random pieces of furniture. Jamie observed him in silence, apparently used to such behaviour. Malcolm couldn't decide if he wanted to keep on shouting at his colleague or send him out. He'd hoped Jamie would be his usual loud, exuberant self and hadn't anticipated he would stay quiet. He'd never really known how to deal with a mute Jamie. To be completely honest, it made him nervous. He desperately wanted to fill the silence with a joke or an insult, but he couldn't settle on a suitable one.

"What did you do?" Jamie asked in a calm tone that was also alien to Malcolm. Once again, he was reminded how different a person the young man was outside the office. He had a wife and two kids. And if Malcolm wasn't so fucked up, he would probably call him a friend. He'd never felt more jealous of the man as he did now. That realisation, coming out of nowhere, scared him. But it also propelled him to answer Jamie truthfully.

"What do you think?" he told him, and Malcolm could see that Jamie was floored by his brutal honesty.

"It's just... It's no use, mate. I'm too old for this shit, and too old for her anyway. I guess it's nice in some fucked up way to imagine oneself being a different person every once in a while. Imagine that we can change, or be someone else entirely. But that's not me, it never was. And I've always been fine with that."

"You're not making any sense, man. I never said you had to marry her on the spot and pledge your ever-dying love to her, I just said it might do you good to... flirt, or whatever. "

"Yeah, well, guess I'm too old for that too."

"Bollocks. You're a coward, that's what you are."

Malcolm was on the verge of signalling in a very loud manner that Jamie was taking things too far, but the smaller man deliberately didn't give him the time to open his mouth.

"You know you are. Stop over-complicating things. If you like her, tell her. And if you've been a prick to her, apologise. You said so yourself, you're too old for this shit, so what have you go to lose anyway? She's just one lass for fuck's sake."

"This very morning, you told me she was more than just one lass. And don't pretend you weren't going to praise how fucking clever and how fucking wonderful she'd been at the _Guardian_ when you came in just now."

"I didn't know at the time you had it so bad for her already. Do something, it's fucking ridiculous. Or don't, and stay miserable. But stop blaming me. Now, can we drop this girly subject, my balls are about to drop off."

Malcolm sat back behind his desk, mentally drained. It was close to seven already, and he wanted to get home before midnight. He could see that Jamie felt that way, too. So he pretended that nothing was amiss, and quickly dismissed him from his office after checking the files he'd brought down were the right ones. But just before he closed the door, he called Jamie back on a whim:

"Was Sam still there when you got in?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Tell her to come in, please."

Malcolm knew he'd never have the guts to formerly apologise to Clara. He'd probably mess this up as well anyway, since apologising was a foreign concept to him. But he also knew that he wouldn't be able to do any valuable work tonight if he did nothing. So enlisting his trusted PA was the strategy he came up with. She'd looked at him strangely when he asked her to go and buy a couple of Guinness cans and Kettle crisps, but seemed non-plussed when he told her who to bike it to. He wondered if Jamie had opened his big fucking mouth regarding the Clara thing, and wished he could muster some anger, but quickly realised that those two were the last people in the whole of Whitehall who would ever gossip about it to anyone else.

Afterwards, he sent Sam home and was glad to find himself efficient and clear-minded for a couple more hours at his desk. His guilty-conscience was assuaged for now, and he didn't focus too much on the way Clara would interpret his olive branch. Or whatever the hell it was supposed to be. He wasn't sure himself. Apparently, he wasn't sure of a lot of things, these days. But the things he _was_ undoubtedly sure of - such as the incompetence of more than half of the people currently in power, or the shitstorm the looming reshuffle would bring - those things he held dear. Those things he felt safe with.

Driving home that night, BBC Radio 4 blissfully off for once, he pondered this growing realisation some more. He knew he wasn't getting any younger, and perhaps his sense of dread regarding the young, pretty and utterly competent Education advisor derived from that acknowledgment. She might be a terrific asset to the government one day. He could see her reaching the very top if she wanted to. But perhaps she didn't care about any of that. He actually wished she didn't yearn for such a career. He knew how bitter and disillusioned hard-working, smart people quickly became, the more time they spent in government. Some might even say he had been one of those people at one point. Malcolm knew he wouldn't up and leave his Party and his job anytime soon, but he also knew that the revolutionary ideas he'd had in his youth - hell, when he was Clara's age, let's be honest - were long gone and buried somewhere with all the other bright ideas people had had over the years to make the country a better place.

Perhaps it was only a sexual thing then, but somehow he doubted that. Sure, she was gorgeous and her impish smile was deadly. And yes, the way she'd had looked at him on Friday night had done more for his ego than the Prime Minister repeatedly professing his utter admiration had ever done to him. Who knew? Maybe he'd get the chance to find out, one day. He knew the main reason for his 'gift' tonight resided there: he didn't want to burn all his bridges with her. He wanted more time. More time to make up his fucked up mind. More time to see if she was as _bloody perfect_ as Jamie implied she would be for him.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews! They mean a lot to me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to stop halfway through but eventually didn't. So here's a longer chapter. Thanks for your kind words!

** Clarity - Chapter 8 **

 

The last week before Christmas was more hectic than Clara had anticipated. Things were - mostly - back to normal with her colleagues, but she found herself getting more and more work. Emails, phone-calls, even letters asking for her input on some government matters relating - mostly - to education. In some ways, she was glad of the attention and trust she apparently now inspired. She knew this was due to her interview for _The_ _Guardian_ and the good press it generated. And she certainly didn't mind how the minister, Bill Collins, seemed to have included her in his top 5 advisor list, now. But it did mean that her days were a lot fuller than before. For once, she actually was glad that the holidays were upon her. She had even planned to drive up to Liverpool for Christmas to see her dad. Granted, she had taken the decision at the last minute, but her father had sounded enthusiastic on the phone. Maybe things would be fine this year.

She was brought back to the present by her chirping phone. She wondered if she should pick it up. It was close to midnight and it wasn't a number she recognised.

"Hello?"

"Good, you're awake, we need you at Number 10. Get in a cab now."

Clara tried not to think how Jamie MacDonald had gotten her home number and focused on his words.

"What? It's almost midnight, what's going on?"

"I know it's close to fucking midnight, but do you think the media every sleep? There's been a major clusterfuck, and you're the only one at Education who knows anything about the sodding new curriculum and young enough to use her fucking grey cells at a time like this. So get out of your jimjams and get in a cab. Call me back when you're on your way and I'll tell you more. If you're not on the phone in five minutes, I'll come and get you out of your fucking bed myself."

Jamie's accent was barely understandable when he was in a mood like this one, thought Clara, who tried not to pay too much attention to the sheer number of profanities as well. _Right, guess I should get ready, then_. It didn't even cross her mind that she could probably refuse. And, okay, she had to admit she was rather curious. She wondered what that said about her: something very bad had apparently happened, but she was secretly pretty excited. Especially since it would be the first time she set foot at Downing Street. So maybe she was a bit of a masochist when it came to her work. But then, she already knew that.

She called a cab, changed quickly into something professional but comfortable - she hadn't been in her _jimjams_ , but she didn't think jeans would be right for Number 10 - packed her laptop and some files she might need and spent a few precious seconds petting her dog and telling him she would be home soon. She knew she was turning into one of those crazy old ladies who had conversations with their pets, but it did make her feel better. The hooting horn of the car outside finally made her rise up and leave the flat.

Just as she was about to call Jamie back, she had a flash of panic - well, not really panic, more like febrility - would Malcolm Tucker be there? She hadn't seen him since his impromptu gift/apology/dinner (she couldn't decide what to call it) and wondered how she would react when she saw him. And how _he_ would react. Maybe this hadn't been something out of the ordinary for him. Maybe he was used to bike Guinness and crisps to women he'd angered during the day. _Right_. Somehow, she didn't think so. Deciding now was not the time to think about the significance of his act - again - she dialled her phone.

"I'm in the taxi," she announced, as soon as the line was picked up on the first ring.

"Good girl. Now here's the thing: someone leaked the new Education curriculum and we need you to do damage control."

"What do you mean? It's not even ready yet, it's supposed to come out in March."

"Exactly, which is why the file the fucking hacks got ahold of is a very early draft."

"How early?" she asked, dreading his answer.

"June."

This was indeed pretty bad then. The draft by that stage had mostly been people throwing all their crazy ideas at the project. She had read some of them - one advisor had even put in the reintroduction of corporal punishment, as a joke, or so she hoped - and she could only imagine the consequences this would have if the draft had indeed been leaked to the press.

"Wait, I didn't even work there at the time," she added, thinking that it would probably only complicate matters.

"Don't you think I fucking know that? That's why we're calling you, we need someone with knickers as clean as the Queen's. You have to tell the waiting packs of rabid hyenas that it's not the actual thing. And preferably, that such document never even originated from the department."

She would have to lie then, great. Just as she was starting to enjoy the new challenges of her job.

"I'll tell you more when you get there. Where are you now?"

"About 15 minutes away I'd say, maybe less."

"Good."

Jamie then told her what entrance she needed to use to get in and pass security, and Clara barely had a few minutes to think about the damage this leak could potentially bring to her department before she was there. This... was chaos, there was no other word for it. A woman had picked her up downstairs and led her to what she was told was the Strategic Communications Unit. Jamie MacDonald's lair. Said Jamie looked very much in his element in the crowded room where desks had been put haphazardly everywhere and haggard looking people were busy talking on phones. Sometimes two phones at the same time.

"Perfect, our fucking life jacket is here. Everybody, this is Clara Oswald, you listen to every word she fucking says."

Clara blushed, given that each and every person in the room was now staring at her. No wonder, since Jamie had pretty much screamed his instructions. He looked disheveled, with stubbly cheeks and ruffled hair, but also absolutely thrilled about the situation. This was his _thing_ , after all. Shouting at people and managing crises.

"What do I do exactly?" she asked, feeling a lot less sure about herself and her remit than in the cab.

"You sit over here and you answer all those people's questions. If needed, you take their place on the phone."

"And what do I tell them? What's the line?"

"You tell them what's in the actual fucking curriculum and what isn't. You have the latest draft with you?"

"Yes, but I'm pretty sure I won't need to refer to it, given how bonkers some of the proposals in the Summer draft were."

"You tell me. What the fuck are you breathing over there at the Sanctuary Buildings? Although, I have to say, I quite liked the idea of having kids design the 2012 Olympic village. Now that would be a fucking blast. Yell if you need me, I'll be over there doing some more yelling. You'll get used to it."

Clara smiled at him but cringed internally. She didn't know how she would break it to him that the Olympic thing was still in the latest draft. She'd probably tell him after Christmas. Maybe. For now, she sat at the corner of the desk she'd been directed to and booted up her computer to have the right files in the vicinity, just in case she had a lapse of memory.

In the end, she didn't have time to glance at her computer once. She was bombarded by questions and handed receiver after receiver by helpless staffers who looked like they hadn't slept or ate in the last three days (maybe they hadn't). She spoke to more journalists than she thought she ever would in the span of her whole career and managed to keep her composure most of the time. Around four, she couldn't help being a little more sarcastic than she should have been in her answer to a reporter from a newspaper she had never heard of.

"No sir, we do not plan to have children learn all the national anthems by heart for the Olympics. Although we were planning on having them re-write God Save the Queen for the occasion..."

Of course, Jamie chose that very moment to be within earshot. When she finally put the phone down - after having apologised to the inflexible journalist - she expected a good bollocking from him. Instead, he offered her a banana.

"Good, you lasted four hours. Impressive. Now eat, you're going to need it."

She had to admit that she had indeed been hungry. Perhaps her lapse of judgement had generated there. Other than that, she strangely didn't feel tired. She guessed she didn't have time to feel tired, and she was thankfully often brought fresh cups of tea. Clara thought the night would finally come to an end at six, when the newspapers would go to press, but she was then presented with the mountain of emails she was meant to answer. She had forgotten that some journalists had unfortunately joined the 21st century, and didn't have newspapers to print but rather websites and blogs to update.

She thought she saw Malcolm Tucker poke his head in the room a few times during the night, but she knew they both had more important stuff to do than saying hello or start a conversation that would no doubt be a little awkward. When Clara felt that the next person who would hand her a laptop or call her to a desk so that she could dictate them the proper answer would get her hands around his or her throat, she magically found Jamie once again behind her. He seemed to know in advance when she was about to crack.

"Another four hours, good job. Take a real break and come back in half an hour. We'll know what was printed by then."

She nodded, and first walked on auto-pilot to the bathroom to freshen up. She had made a few trips there during the night of course, but she had refrained from looking at herself in the mirror, too afraid of what she would see. She realised now that it had been a wise decision. She looked an absolute mess, but was too tired to do anything about it first. Realising that she couldn't stay immobile in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, she spurred to action. She brushed her teeth thanks to the toothbrush she always kept in her bag, reapplied some light makeup to make herself look more awake (and human) and started doing something about her hair before giving up and deciding to use a plastic hair slide to keep them in place.

Clara then walked towards the informal room used as a cafeteria she had been given direction to and sat down gratefully with a cup of coffee. _First coffee of the day_. She knew it wouldn't be the last, but she had wisely stuck to tea for the night, knowing that she would need caffeine at some point. Greatly anticipating the kick it would hopefully give her, she took a sip, and promptly felt like gagging.

"Dear God!" she couldn't help but say out loud. The burnt and acidic taste had made her firmly close her eyes reflexively, but she opened them again when she heard a gravely voice behind her.

"Big mistake. I'm afraid it won't leave you for a week. Not a gin and tonic, but you can have this to disinfect your taste buds," Malcolm Tucker told her, handing her a can of Red Bull. She didn't think twice about the fact that he'd already drunk some of it and took a big gulp. The taste was only marginally less vile, but she could now at least properly see through the tears in her eyes.

"Why isn't there a sign warning people about this deadly concoction?" she asked him in a raspy voice.

"Probably to keep on having newcomers like you fall for it," he deadpanned, apparently making his mind up about something and sitting across from her.

"So, how long have you been here now?" he asked her somewhat conversationally.

"I arrived around midnight. Been on the phone ever since, it seems. What about you?" she replied, seeing that he looked slightly fresher than Jamie. Pressed suit and shirt, clean shaven, but tousled hair.

"Mmh, what day is it now?" Clara doubted he was being serious, but she humoured him.

"The 23rd, I think."

"Then I've been here a little longer than you." Clara could tell the "little longer" was a euphemism for "too many days to count" and handed him the half empty can of Red Bull.

"Take this, then. You need it more than me."

"Oh, don't worry, I still have a few cans left. Has Jamie behaved reasonably enough considering the situation?"

"Well, hard for me to say since it's the first time I had to go through something like this, but I'd say so. He's been very nice to me actually. Got me a banana at around four."

"Yes, the famous 4 o'clock banana, good call. I told him he should always keep fruit up there. And speaking of the little twat, here he is." Clara started, seeing Jamie enter the cafeteria and fearing she'd actually been sitting there for an hour.

"Malcolm, Sam's looking for you. And you...good God, I hope you didn't try the coffee. You did? Poor lass, hope you'll survive. Anyway, you need to go home and change, I've booked you for a bunch of interviews."

"What? So it's been printed?"

"Some of it, yes. You need to do some live damage control now, and put your pretty face to good use." Clara would have probably reacted to his comment if she hadn't felt a massive headache coming on from the perspective of the day ahead of her. A day that had apparently just started.

"But don't go all the way, you know. Wear something conservative, that might be best," Jamie added.

"You should perhaps avoid the red dress you had at that party for instance," commented Malcolm who, upon closer inspection, looked like he hadn't wanted to make that remark out loud.

"I mean, it _did_ look great..." he amended, but was interrupted by Jamie.

"When you two have finished flirting, I'll have to brief you about the interviews in the office before you head home, Clara." Jamie then walked out, and Clara felt compelled to follow him, even though she couldn't resist gracing Malcolm with an amused smile before leaving.

Back in Jamie's cave, as she had deemed it a suitable name given that the the drapes were always closed - probably so that staffers had no idea how long they'd actually been inside - he had her sit next to his desk as he was telling her about the various interviews he had booked for her. She had trouble following as it seemed to her that she would be at it until the middle of January, given his never ending list. She had started massaging her temples reflexively and just as she was about to finally interrupt her torturer to ask him how she was supposed to manage all that, she was assaulted by the wonderfully invigorating smell of freshly brewed coffee.

"Oh, Sam, are those the SkyNews files? You're a fucking life saviour, girl."

Clara turned towards the "girl", who was actually a pretty woman a little older than her with long dark hair. She handed Jamie the files she was holding in one hand, and set the coffee cup she was holding in the other right in front of Clara. She smiled at her, and Clara thanked her profusely, too exhausted to wonder where the coffee was actually coming from. Maybe her unconscious had created this wonderful person, but as she gripped the cup gratefully she at least realised that the coffee wasn't a mirage.

"You're very welcome, it looks like you indeed needed it."

"How's Malcolm doing with the BBC?"

"I've only arrived an hour ago, but he'll get there, I'm sure."

"Of course he will. How long has it been now?"

"We're arriving at the 48 hour mark, I think. But he took the time for a shower and I've restocked the fridge with Red Bull, so he should be good for twelve more hours, I'd say."

"Good."

Clara had no idea what the conversation was about, and was too busy feeling human again thanks to the caffeine to interrupt them.

"Lucky girl, you got coffee from downstairs. They make it with real coffee beans down there, or so I'm told," Jamie told her as soon as the dark haired woman had walked out.

"What?"

"That was Sam, Malcolm's PA." The previous conversation then made more sense, now. She looked at her half empty cup with renewed admiration. Seemed like she was destined to receive beverages from the director of communications. She found this idea very funny - more funny than it probably was - and couldn't stop laughing for a little while. The odd look she got from Jamie signalled her that her behaviour might be a little weird. So Clara attributed it to fatigue, and drank some more coffee.

"You stopped the list after that interview for ITV, I'm listening." Clara then told him, once the cup was empty.

Jamie briefed her for ten more minutes, then told her she had a driver waiting downstairs who would first take her home, then drive her around all day long to the various interviews. He gave her a huge pile of documents, but basically asked her to do the same thing she had been doing all night, and set the journalists straight on the curriculum. Clara was pretty sure she would soon be able to answer questions about the bloody draft in her sleep. But sleep would wait, she needed to shower and find something to wear in the allotted half hour she had been given once she arrived home.

Clara had never been driven around like that, and hadn't known what the proper etiquette was with the driver. So she had started making some talk with the man, who was very nice, but not very talkative. Maybe he wasn't a morning person. She could definitely relate to that. She told him she'd be back in half an hour, but that it might take her an extra 5 minutes since she definitely needed to take her poor dog for a walk first thing.

The Doctor didn't seem too angry at her for having abandoned him all this time, but unfortunately he was starting to get used to her absence. So Clara spent extra time she would have needed to get ready to walk around the neighbourhood with him. She knew she probably looked a bit demented, walking around with her dog, looking a mess, and talking to him in French. But the experience refreshed her more than the five minute shower she took afterwards.

The day eventually passed in a blur. She had stopped counting how many interviews she had given after the fifth one, and by the end didn't even realise if it was for a TV channel or for the radio. She hoped she had behaved consistently each time. Her day was punctuated by various coffee cups from various coffee places, a few granola bars and bananas and phone-calls from Jamie who had apparently stopped being able to form sentences which didn't have at least three profanities in them. Clara had never heard such variations on the word "fuck". If she had been in a better mood herself, she might have taken notes for posterity's sake.

She was driven back to Number 10 around six o'clock, and couldn't fathom that she had been up for 36 hours. She felt jet lagged, and had a hard time believing she wasn't actually dreaming. She walked on auto-pilot to Jamie's office but found it almost empty. Thinking she had walked in the wrong room, she retraced her steps and bumped into the nice woman from... was it _this_ morning? Sam, she believed her name was.

"I'm sorry, do you know where Jamie..."

"He went home, as did most of the staffers."

"Oh, I thought I needed to come back for a debrief or..." Clara stopped, feeling foolish as well as desperately tired, now.

"Malcolm's still there, why don't you go and see him? I'm sure he'll answer all your questions about the interviews."

"I'm sure he's busy, it's fine..."

"He's not, trust me. Just follow me." Too knackered to argue, Clara walked behind Sam downstairs, actually glad to have someone making decisions for her once again. What had this day turned into? She had been told what to do at virtually every second. She hoped she would soon have control of her life once again.

Sam knocked on a high Georgian door downstairs, and entered even when she didn't receive any answer from inside. The office was a lot more spacious and regal than Jamie's, that was for sure. But it was also empty.

"Curry must have arrived, then. Follow me."

Not knowing if she had heard correctly or had fallen down the rabbit hole, Clara followed the woman to another door down the carpeted hall. It was a meeting room, empty but for the director of communications sitting in front of what was apparently his dinner.

"Found her wandering upstairs looking for Jamie, so I brought her down. I'm heading home, good night Malcolm."

Clara sat in front of Malcolm, unsure of what she should be doing now that no one was there to tell her. He hadn't spoken yet, but he stood up and exited the room from another door and walked back in again before Clara had time to react. He was holding a bottle of lager in his hand, which he gave to her once it was opened. _Another beverage, then_. It was cold, and tasted wonderful. She spoke only after she'd taken a few sips.

"Thanks."

"No problem, want some curry? There's enough to feed the whole building, as usual."

"Yeah, why not?" said Clara, who wasn't sure if she was really hungry, but had forgotten how to say "no" sometime during the last two days. He handed her a paper plate and a plastic fork, and told her to help herself. Once her plate was full, he raised his own beer to her in a mock cheer and they started eating in silence for a while.

Clara realised after the third forkful that she had in fact been famished, and she decided that the curry was the best food she'd ever tasted.

"I sent Jamie home an hour ago, we were getting to the point where paramedics would soon need to be called in to revive his staffers. And his wife would have resented me if I got him arrested for not upholding the Geneva convention. Especially just before Christmas."

"Good point," Clara replied, feeling as human as one could reasonably feel after these past 36 hours, which wasn't saying much.

"Guess I'm a cheap date, too," Malcolm then uttered, gesturing to the curry and beer.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said you were a cheap date because you liked Guinness and salt & vinegar crisps. Well, curry and lager is mine, I guess."

Clara did remember, and refrained from commenting. She actually didn't mind curry and lager, if she was completely honest.

"The interviews went fine, if you were worrying about that. The hacks will be busy with Christmas tomorrow, anyway. So your department should be okay until early January."

Clara realised that Malcolm Tucker was actually a lot more talkative when he was tired. He had probably told her more stuff in the last minute than he had ever told her until now. Too bad she couldn't for the life of her think of things to say except for "oh" and "right". She'd probably regret it afterwards.

"How long have you been here, now?" she eventually asked him, remembering Sam and Jamie's conversation that morning and impressed that she could still form entire sentences.

"What day is it?" he asked again.

"Still the 23rd, I think," she answered with a smile.

"I have not missed Christmas, then."

"No, I guess not. Although I think I wouldn't mind sleeping until January the 1st."

"My kind of holidays, you're right."

At that, Clara remembered that she would need to drive to Liverpool sometime tomorrow, and find the time to get the Doctor to Martha's place, since she unfortunately couldn't take him with her.

"I should be heading home," she said, realising that time wouldn't stop just for her.

"Me too, I think. Seems the fuckers have finally allowed me some sleep." Clara didn't know if the fuckers referred to the press or to the various government officials. Probably both.

They finished their food and drinks, and Clara wished Malcolm a good night.

"You're taking a cab?" he asked her just as she was opening the door.

"No, I think I'll walk," she answered, tired of being driven around.

"What is it with you and walking? It must be minus five or something tonight."

 _What is it with you and caring,_ she wanted to retort, but didn't. She thought he wouldn't have the "driver waiting for me" argument this time, but he surprised her once more.

"Right, I'm driving you then, I've got my car here."

"What? No, it's only a 30 minute walk, I'm going!"

"Where is it you're going?"

"Close to Elephant & Castle," she answered, already anticipating his reaction.

"I'm driving," he harrumphed.

"It's perfectly safe, nothing ever happened to me. What do you have against the place I live?"

"Nothing, but I'm driving."

Clara tried to show her annoyance in the way that she was stubbornly refusing to walk next to him on the way to the car park. Because of course she had followed him, even though she hadn't actually said out loud she was agreeing to him driving her home. She thought it was fitting that even though her workday was finally officially over, she still wouldn't be able to take one _bloody_ decision for herself. But once she found herself sitting in the comfortable leather seat, she acknowledged that it perhaps hadn't been such a bad idea. If Malcolm hadn't started the engine, she'd have actually probably fallen asleep.

"Isn't that James Bond's car?" she eventually asked as they were getting out of the car park.

"What?"

"It's a DB9, right?"

"Well, yes," he answered, surprised.

"Then it's James Bond's car. That's kind of cool."

"Right," Malcolm said. And Clara wasn't sure if the "right" meant that he agreed with her about it being James Bond's car, or that her somewhat childish reaction puzzled him. She was too tired to find out, and was actually enjoying the ride. Seeing passer-bys bundled up in heavy layers and scarves, she silently agreed that walking home would have been a bit tragic. Especially in those heels. She felt like taking them off in the car but didn't dare to.

"So, where to?"

"I told you, Elephant & Castle," she answered stubbornly, once more.

"But I mean after that. I'm not just dropping you there."

Clara had actually thought that he would. She felt a bit self-conscious now about leading him right to her door, but the vision of her fluffy pillows waiting for her made her worries disappear.

"Just take Walworth Road after the big roundabout and I'll guide you the rest of the way."

They drove in silence, and Clara didn't mind, enjoying Malcolm's smooth driving and the purring sound of the powerful engine. They arrived more quickly than she had anticipated, and she wondered if she had closed her eyes at some point. But she realised that she must have been awake to give him directions, since he had parked right in front of her door.

"Thank you, it was a better idea than walking in this weather, you were right."

"You're welcome. Enjoy your rest, you deserve it."

"Yeah, you too. I'll finally allow myself to crash right after taking the Doctor for a walk."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he mumbled, "Right, I'm going with you," he added resolutely, getting out of the car and closing the door. Clara got out as well, puzzled.

"What?"

"Get your... bloody dog, I'll walk him with you."

"Why? You don't have to do that."

"I'm here, aren't I? Might as well."

"This is stupid, just go home, you must be exhausted. I'm used to walking my dog, nothing's going to happen to me," she tried to reason with him, unsure of his exact motive for wanting to stay.

"I haven't driven you all the way here just for you to step out again once I'm gone," he argued.

Feeling too exhausted to set his mind straight, she capitulated, knowing from experience now that it would be the quickest way for him to eventually leave and let her go to bed.

"Fine, but you can wait here while I go and get him."

"Fine," he mimicked, crossing his arms and leaning against his car, his posture the very definition of a man who had all the time in the world _but would she still hurry up please, it was getting a wee bit late_.

Clara huffed and walked up to her flat. She hadn't asked him to wait outside because she didn't want him to see her place - she was proud to say it was quite tidy, after all - but because she wanted to greet her dog without him hovering in the background and thinking her certifiable. She also took a few seconds to change her shoes and put on a warmer coat. He could suffer in the cold for a few minutes, he was the one who had insisted on staying, after all.

He was still leaning against his car when she walked down, and he didn't look too put out. She guessed he was just as tired as she was - probably more, given what she had heard this morning.

"Thanks for waiting," she told him, genuinely. She hadn't lied earlier when she had told him that nothing had ever happened to her in the neighbourhood at night, but she was usually on her guard. And given her state at the moment, she felt better having Malcolm with her. After all, her dog wasn't very scary.

"So that's the Doctor then," he asked rhetorically, "A border-collie, right?"

"Yep," she answered, "I've had him for six years, now."

Malcolm stood up properly, and started walking with her. Mindful of his nice car, she chose not to wander too far away. Her dog seemed to understand that she wanted to go to bed, and wasn't too restless for once. He sniffed Malcolm's shoes for a few seconds, deemed him an acceptable presence, and left him alone.

"You've shrunk," he noted.

"I have. Bloody heels."

He didn't comment, but Clara felt him imperceptibly move closer to her.

"So, are you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"Why you called your dog the Doctor."

"Well, he hasn't _fucking_ time travelled."

Malcolm looked contrite, but he didn't apologise for his words in the car last week. He probably thought he had apologised enough, and Clara actually thought so, too.

"When he was a pup, his coat was a bit different, and it looked like he had a white bow-tie around his neck. I thought that looked doctorly, that's all."

They kept walking for a little while in silence, taking the leisurely steps of people who were either too drunk or too tired to pay much attention to where they were going. Once they had come full circle and were back to his car, she stopped and thanked him once again. He still stood close to her and she could see how exhausted he actually looked. He was very good at hiding it at work, but here under the lonely streetlamp across her door, it was harder to fake it.

"You've been up for 60 hours," she couldn't help but say out loud.

"Something like that, I guess. I never count. I did take a few naps though, so I'll be fine. It's not the first time."

"You're not going to work tomorrow, right?"

"I might, but not too early. I want to go swimming, if the pool's open."

He looked surprised at his own words. Once again, Clara realised that he was much likelier to offer personal information when he was dead on his feet. She didn't know what that meant about him, apart from the fact that she hoped he would stop looking so guilty.

"That sounds really nice. Drive safely, Malcolm," she told him, and stood on her toes to kiss his stubbly cheek quickly, before she had too much time to think about it.

She smiled one last time at him, and walked up the steps with her dog. She heard the car engine start five long minutes after she had closed the door.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Clarity - Chapter 9**

 

The last week before Christmas was as hectic as Malcolm had anticipated. Why was it that every year, the PM deemed it the best time to rethink his _whole_ Cabinet? Every fucking year since he'd been in power, come December the 20th and he would wake up with the pressing need for an imminent and inevitable reshuffle. And every year, Malcolm had to do damage control, because of course some cunt in Westminster had to go and babble to the press that Armageddon was about to happen, even though by the 22nd, the PM had changed his mind, after having been influenced by stern advisors - Malcolm being one of them. But by then, the fucking cat was already out of the bloody fucking bag, and he had to spend the days preceding Christmas pulling out fires everywhere. Which explained why Malcolm woke up at ten o'clock on the morning of the 24th.

He hadn't been home in three days and he'd slept for eleven hours straight. He knew that was to be expected after a 60 hour workday - or so it had seemed to him - but he was still surprised when he saw the time on his alarm clock. It was Christmas Eve for fuck's fake, he was allowed a modicum of idleness. Unfortunately, he didn't feel rested. His sleep had been more akin to a coma, really. His brain had simply shut down, and probably just in time. He actually had no memory of how he'd got into bed. Everything had been a blur after he'd said goodnight to Clara on her doorstep.

He had admired her resilience in the face of her own departmental emergency situation. But she had looked quite defeated when Sam had - to all intents and purposes - led her by the hand to the meeting room where he was eating dinner. Granted, he had become vastly experienced in the art of working ungodly hours and dealing with the fate of the government with little to no sleep over the years, so he couldn't really blame her for being exhausted. Any human being would have been after the 48 hours she'd had to go through. And even then she still had the energy to act stubbornly.

 _God_ was she stubborn. Arguing with him and refusing the simple courtesy of driving her home. He understood that her reluctance had probably come from an innate belief that she would somehow have to pay the price if she accepted favours. He couldn't blame her for that either: after all, even in this day and age and especially in this line of work, she would have been right about 80% of the time. And in the end, she had been doing _him_ a favour, really. He had felt a lot better knowing that she was safe and sound in her own home. That being said, he still wasn't quite sure what that dog outing had really been about.

Oh, who was he kidding, he knew perfectly well what this had all been about. Driving home a junior advisor who was dead on her feet after two days of hell was one thing. Walking said junior advisor's dog with her was quite another. Maybe it was his way of showing her he could be stubborn, too. Maybe he had just wanted to be consistent and act like a gentleman all the way through. Or maybe he'd just wanted to meet her blasted dog, who the fuck knew. He couldn't erase from his mind the way she had looked all bundled up in that huge coat of hers, with the hand holding her dog leash disappearing inside the too long sleeve. Or how tiny she had seemed next to him without her heels. He had instinctively wanted to protect her. But if he was completely honest with himself, his thoughts hadn't exactly been fatherly or brotherly. He... Maybe his bed wasn't the best place to be having those thoughts, Malcolm realised.

 _Right_ , shower and coffee, then. Even if the pool was open on Christmas Eve - which he doubted - it was too late to go, now. It'd probably be packed with excitable children. Maybe he'd go for a walk, then. Maybe... _oh crap, it snowed_. Malcolm had finally found the necessary energy to get out of bed, and as he was opening the blinds, he realised that his back garden was covered in white. As were the roofs of the neighbourhood houses. It didn't snow that often here in London. And the childish reaction he felt growing irresistibly in him was quickly squashed by the adult realisation that it would be a nightmare to go to work. The roads would be packed with either people trying to exit the city for Christmas or people trying to get to the city for the holidays. And neither of those two groups would have any idea how to drive in this weather.

 _Guess they'd have to find a way to survive without me_. For once, he couldn't care less, not after the last few days and the hours he had sacrificed for them and their sheer stupidity. There was no way in hell he was getting his car out. The buses were probably not in service, the tube was certainly packed and the cabbies who would choose to drive in the snow were most likely Evil Knievel wannabes. Malcolm would actually enjoy a day in. There were piles of stuff he was meant to read. And a few records he wanted to listen to. He was in the mood for some Duke, and that hadn't happened in a long while. But best not to think about the reasons now.

After his (rather cold) shower, he sat at his kitchen table with a cup of black coffee and two kiwis and went through his messages and emails. He was glad to see that he wouldn't even have to pretend to feel guilty for not going to Number 10: the hacks had apparently stopped bothering him about the imaginary reshuffle and no MP had committed a blunder during the night - like, say, driving intoxicated with a call girl beside him and two grams of coke in his pocket. That would have been so...well, last week, really. Malcolm was also glad to see that there was no new development in the education curriculum leak. Clara and her department would enjoy a quite Christmas as well then. Good.

So obviously his emergency phone was bound to ring at eleven on the dot. He was more than a little tempted not to answer. But Chopin's Funeral March gave him chills, and he remembered that he had given the number to his sisters, so he picked up after a few blood curdling rings.

"Malcolm Tucker."

"Good morning, darling."

"Jamie, for fuck's sake. I was about to have a heart attack. Why are you calling me on _this_ phone? And why the hell are you blocking your number? Little twat."

"And a merry fucking Christmas to you too, love."

"It's not Christmas yet. Now answer my bloody questions."

"You _are_ in a bloody good mood, Malc. I just wanted to try that phone, and I wasn't sure you were going to answer if you saw it was me."

"Of course I was going to answer. _You_ made me put that fucking ringtone, it makes my skin crawl," he paused, then added, "Don't tell me you're at Number 10. Not in this weather."

"I'm not yet, but I will be in about 15 minutes. Or make that half an hour if I have to drop by the fucking A&E, this cabbie is a maniac!" Jamie had whispered that last part, knowing that a trip to the hospital would be even more in the cards for him if said cabbie heard him.

"It's snowing!"

"I know it's fucking snowing! Well, actually, it snowed, past tense. Now it looks like there's grey piss everywhere."

"Are you going to tell me what the fuck is happening or am I going to have to guess? And, by the way, there's no fucking way I'm driving in this. So there'd better be a really good reason if you want me to freeze my balls outside waiting for a cab that will probably never come."

"I sent you a car. Steve should be there in 20 minutes."

"Jesus Christ, doesn't he ever take holidays?"

"I'm pretty sure he's the fucking Stig during his free time. And he sounded thrilled to come and pick you up on the phone. I think he has a thing for you, Malc."

He was getting more than a little worried, now. Jamie never beat around the bush, and he still hadn't told him why he needed to get his arse all the way to Downing Street on Christmas Eve.

"Just tell me, Jamie."

"It's Hewitt. Another hit piece. Jeremy called me in advance. He's planning on having it published tomorrow."

"Now that will be a great Christmas present," Malcolm deadpanned, but he could tell Jamie knew his heart wasn't in it.

"We can kill it, Malc. And kill the fucker once and for all."

"We already tried that, the man is a fucking cockroach."

"Well he _is_ a cock, that's for sure. Come on, Malc. A proper execution for all time's sake, you and me against the vindictive motherfucker."

Malcolm felt the weight of the last week crushing him once more. He wanted to tell Jamie to let it go, to let the fucker publish his bloody article in his too-dirty-to-wipe-his-own-arse rag. It wasn't the first time Jamie and him had attempted to stop him. They usually succeeded, but it always cost them a great deal in the form of missed hours of sleep. Any other day of the year, he would have welcomed the task, and probably greatly enjoyed it. And Jamie would have too, if he knew anything about the little psycho.

"I'll deal with it on my own, Jamie. You don't have to be there to hold my hand, I know how to deal with Hewitt. "

"Bollocks. You need all the fucking help you can get, especially since it's been so long you haven't properly eviscerated any senior hack, given your new touchy feely wanky approach."

"What about Sarah and..." but Jamie interrupted him.

"I'm almost there, get in the fucking car. I'm getting the rack and pillory ready. Ta fucking ta."

 _Well, there goes my one hour holiday, then_.

Jamie hadn't been joking when he'd told him he was getting the medieval torture instruments ready. When Malcolm got to Number 10, he had apparently already devised half a dozen strategy to prevent Hewitt from publishing his article, and only one of them implied that somebody had to be killed, which was a first. Maybe his own so called wanky approach had started to rub off on him. He was at least glad to see that Jamie had also left his suit at home and had arrived in casual clothes. Malcolm hoped it meant that their presence here was an informal one, and that he wouldn't have a hard time sending him home shortly.

Steve had shown up as expected, and it had taken them an hour to reach Downing Street. But the driver hadn't been discouraged, and said he would wait for Malcolm and drive him back whenever he wanted. The man probably meant it as well, but he had promised it would be around five o'clock at the latest. No one would miss their dinner because of him if he could help it. No one who didn't deserve it, at least. Since he wouldn't mind if Hewitt, for instance, missed his. As well as a few other meals. The fat fuck should thank him, really. He would be doing him a favour.

It was strange, working with Jamie in an almost deserted building. The place wasn't actually deserted of course, Number 10 was never really empty, but it was nonetheless a very quite day. They used to do that more often in the _old days_. The old days only being a year or so ago. Before Jamie and Sarah got their bairns, in fact. They would have often worked together on Sundays for instance, and plan meticulously their strategy to control the relevant branches of government to their liking. He didn't really miss those times, since they still worked on some Sundays and holidays after all, even though it was mostly because of an emergency situation now rather than for sheer Machiavellian pleasure.

He had never resented the younger man for having a family, for having something else in his life that was more important than work. Who knew, maybe he had been enjoying Jamie's life by proxy, in some strange and quite depressing way. And Jamie still behaved the same way, he hadn't been magically transformed by married life and parenthood, he was still the same shouty demented Scot he had met in Glasgow all those years ago. Perhaps there was a hidden message there. Perhaps it was possible to live a different life and yet still be the same. To have someone - well, someone _s_ , in his case - and still be able to do one's job. Although he had a hard time convincing himself of that, Malcolm thought there might be solace there. Even if said solace remained a distant and unrealistic possibility.

"So, did you see Clara again?" asked Jamie out of the blue an hour later as they were pouring over recent articles by Hewitt. Trust the little bastard to always know what he was thinking.

"What do you mean?"

"Yesterday, after you forced me to go home. I thought she might be coming back here at the end of her interviews."

"Yeah, she did. You should have told her to go home," Malcolm answered, hoping to end the conversation.

"And?"

"And what?"

"And I'm not having any of your shit. Did you see her or not?" Jamie really couldn't take a hint, could he?

"Yes. I gave her a lift home," he told him in the most matter of fact tone he could muster.

"You gave her a... ?" Surely he hadn't managed to silence Jamie. That was unheard of.

"So what? The crazy lass wanted to walk home, it was the least I could do after what you had her go through for two days. She was done in."

"You drove her home?"

"Yes."

"She let you do that?" Malcolm hesitated but finally repeated his previous answer.

"And nothing happened after that?" he hesitated even more there, and Jamie could tell.

"Bollocks, did you..."

"No!" he quickly interrupted him, not wanting to know how Jamie would choose to word it.

"But something _did_ happen," he insisted.

"Can we get back to work? Or whatever the fuck it is that we're doing? It's Christmas Eve, we both want to be somewhere else. And for your plan to work we need to find something we can use against Hewitt in his recent articles." But Jamie was like a dog with a particularly squishy, flashy, noisy toy and he wouldn't drop the subject.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Then what did _she_ do?" the little twat was really perceptive, you had to hand it to him.

Malcolm sighed and started scratching his scalp with vigour, hoping to delay his answer. He didn't want to tell Jamie - _because it had been nothing, really_ \- but he also knew that there wasn't anyone else he could share that with. _Should_ he share it? Wouldn't that diminish it in some way? Oh, for fuck's sake. Was he becoming a character from a fucking novel by one of those crazy Brontë sisters? This was ridiculous.

"She kissed me," he eventually told Jamie, "on the cheek I mean, it was just a peck really," he added quickly, seeing the young man's huge blue eyes getting even bigger.

"Probably a French thing or something, they always kiss each other on the cheeks," he said, seeing that Jamie wasn't speaking and feeling nervous because of it.

"A French thing," Jamie finally uttered after a few more tensed seconds of silence, "Sure, why not. But do let me know if she starts making out with you for no apparent reason. I might want to visit France more often." Malcolm couldn't help but roll his eyes at this and shake his head in consternation.

"So come on, tell me. You drove her home, she leaned towards you in the car, kissed your cheek, said good night and left?" Jamie was really enjoying himself.

"Yes, basically."

"Basically?"

"Christ, would you fucking drop it? I drove her home, we walked her dog together because it was safer given the state she was in and she gave me a peck on the cheek before I left, that's all. Now, have you finished with your pile of articles? Anything?"

"You walked her dog with her? Is that a euphemism I should know about?"

"No, although I'm actually looking for a euphemism for 'fuck off', right now. So, the articles?"

Jamie looked at him strangely after that, but started reading once again. Malcolm could tell he was actively thinking about something, and that he would probably not like the result. But he was forced to put his plans regarding Clara on the back burner for a while, because his source on the Hewitt piece called him back around three and sent him the actual draft that would be published the next day if they did nothing.

"Fucking hell, he really has it bad for you. He pulled out all the bloody stops, and it's personal. What the fuck happened between you two? This can't all be about that Kelly Grogan lass, she left you for him after all, not the other way around." Jamie had no tact whatsoever when it came to his personal life, but then it'd happened sufficiently long ago now for him not to actually care.

"Fuck knows, he's just a sad old cunt. He's always had it in for me, and I haven't exactly been nice to him in the past."

"I hope it's not some repressed thing on his part. But that would actually explain a lot," half-joked Jamie.

"Perish the fucking thought. Your mind must really be a weird place for you to be thinking of something like that," but Malcolm actually enjoyed the banter. The younger Scot could probably tell that the article had rattled him. Hewitt depicted him not only as a mean, dangerous and manipulative man, but also as quite a pathetic and pitiful one, which Malcolm was less used to.

The journalist had found out some stuff about his dad he'd really rather people didn't know, as well. He wondered how he'd managed to dig this up, since very few of his acquaintances knew about it. Thankfully, Jamie already did, which made things easier and far less awkward.

"You could always threaten to tell his wife about Kelly. That would piss him off," suggested Jamie.

"No, Kelly's married now, with a kid on the way, I can't do that to her."

"You and your fucking principles."

"Someone has to have them."

"Malcolm. You can't let him publish that," Jamie told him in a serious tone, "He's doing it now on purpose, he knows you had a horrible week. He's using this knowledge against you."

"Don't you think I fucking know that?" Malcolm had indeed been tempted to drop the matter and let the bastard publish his piece. But now that he'd actually seen it, he knew he couldn't possibly let that happen.

"Could you... I don't know, get us something to eat or something? I want to think about it on my own, for a little while." Jamie looked at him a little sadly, but knew that his best plans usually came to him when he was sitting in this office all alone, so he acquiesced and left.

Malcolm knew he was running out of time. It was close to four already and he had promised his driver not to have him wait too late. He knew he could always send the man home and find another way to reach his place. Maybe he'd finally have that fucking walk. But getting rid of his driver meant that he'd probably spend the night here to come up with a way to prevent the piece from being printed. And Malcolm couldn't help but think that Hewitt had also planned this part. He wanted him to spend Christmas Eve locked up in his office and feeling sorry for himself. The man was a cruel but clever bastard. He'd just have to be crueler and cleverer, then.

Jamie came back half an hour later with fish & chips and a gleeful expression on his face. At first, Malcolm thought he'd come up with a strategy. But if he had, he wasn't sharing it. Exasperated, he couldn't help but ask him about it, after he had remained silent for the whole meal.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, did you inhale the vinegar at the chip shop?" Jamie didn't react, and still looked far too happy considering the situation they were in.

"Did you find anything?" Malcolm insisted.

"No," he eventually answered, "but I made a few phone calls and I expect I should get some results soon. Oh, and speaking of results..."

His office door opened. And Clara Oswald stood on the threshold. Malcolm quickly turned back towards Jamie and could see now what the stupid grin on his face had been about. The little twat's plan had worked, apparently. He silently tried to communicate with him his irritation but also his puzzlement. _What the fuck was she doing here? On a day like today, no less_.

"Miss Oswald, you made it, how wonderful. There might even be some chips left for you."

"I'm good, already ate. So, where do you want me to put these?"

Malcolm could see that she was holding a bunch of folders. He also noted that she was in casual clothes: boots, black trousers and that heavy coat of hers she had been wearing the previous evening to walk her dog. He liked that huge coat, for some reason. And not just because she looked ridiculously cute and tiny in it. After all, he would never admit to anyone - least of all himself - that he sometimes had use of the word "cute".

"Jamie, don't tell me you had Clara come all the way here to drop some bloody files?"

"It's fine, Malcolm. I was on my way North, sort of. I'm driving up to Liverpool, I might as well stop here," Clara told him in a tone of voice that was surprisingly devoid of anger or even slight irritation. Jamie looked at him strangely at the 'Malcolm' part. It was only the second time she was using his name, after all. And Jamie had - thankfully - not been present the first time.

"Now that you're here, love, would you mind terribly helping me convince this foolish man that he should grow a pair of fucking balls? And that calling someone on Christmas Eve to tell them their husband is a cheating bastard is perfectly acceptable when one's reputation and dignity are at stake?" Jamie asked her in a far too reasonable tone.

"Jamie, can I see you outside for a minute?" Malcolm said, barely resisting the urge to strangle the man in front of Clara.

"Of course you can, old chap, lead the way," answered Jamie pleasantly. Malcolm looked back at Clara before closing the door with a look that he hoped was contrite enough given the situation. But once they were out of earshot, he didn't hesitate to let his ire known.

"What the _fuck_ are you playing at? What is she doing here?"But the smaller man was still smiling, damn him. Malcolm didn't know where to start. Should he hit him first and go back to his questions later?

"Relax, man, she wanted to come."

"What do you mean, she wanted to come? You called her?"

"Of course I called her, she's not fucking ubiquitous."

"What the hell did you tell her?"

"Nothing she didn't need to now. Alright? Malcolm, I swear, I didn't force her to come." Malcolm had a hard time believing him. But it was true that Clara hadn't looked pissed off about being there.

"You heard her, she's on her way to Liverpool, we can't delay her," he tried to argue.

"Have you seen the state of the roads? She's not planning on arriving there anytime tonight, if you ask me. She can help us for a while." Why did Jamie of all people have to sound so reasonable?

"Oh, Jeremy's calling again, maybe he's got something new for us," Jamie announced before picking up his chirping phone.

On the way back to his office, Malcolm pondered the word 'us' his colleague had used. He knew Jamie loved personalising issues - it just made it easier to solve them, really - but he had to admit that he was still touched. Why had he wanted Clara to be there, though? Psychological support? Like hell. She was only distracting him. Opening his door, he realised quickly that he had made a mistake leaving her alone in his office while he was talking to Jamie. He had left everything on the table, including Hewitt's draft, which he had read back to back a dozen times whilst his colleague was away. He hadn't been able to stop himself. And it seemed that Clara Oswald hadn't either.

She had the good grace to look a little guilty, but Malcolm could tell that she wouldn't apologise about what she'd done. He shouldn't have left the article lying around if he didn't want people to read it, after all. She stared at him a little sadly for a few seconds, but thankfully it didn't last, and her impish nature quickly took over once more.

"So, how am I supposed to help you grow some balls exactly?" Malcolm smiled ruefully at that and sat back behind his desk.

"Don't worry, I'm sure Jamie has a strategy for that, too," he told her. "When do you have to be in Liverpool?"

"I was hoping sometime during the night. My dad told me the roads were even worse up there, but I'm sure I'll manage, it hasn't snowed again at least."

Jamie then burst into the office, holding his BlackBerry up in celebration. "He's shagging Stephanie Carrington!" he shouted in a way that he usually reserved for pubs when Motherwell had scored a goal.

"Carrington? That weather girl wannabe working at _The_ _Mirror_ with the fake tits and the horrible laugh?" asked Malcolm, unsure.

"The one exactly. He must be going deaf in his old age. That girl's laugh really is deadly. Hewitt's got no taste whatsoever," Jamie answered, sitting down to calm himself.

"Steady there," Malcolm warned.

"Oh, right, yeah. Sorry. Guess you have something else to use against him, then." Malcolm sighed, undecided.

"I don't know. I mean, his wife is bound to know already, he's not exactly discreet."

"You could always try."

"I won't call him until I'm absolutely sure of my ammunitions. I'm not there yet," Malcolm pointed out, feeling like conceding defeat, once more. But a look at Clara's resolute face helped him change his mind.

"Right, let's work this," he told them, more sure of himself.

They spent almost an hour discussing various possibilities and pouring over even more articles. Clara was actually a great help. She was incisive and seemed to have a knack for reading between the lines. But unfortunately, they weren't any closer to a new solution.

"You could always delete him. It might actually work for a little while, since it's the holidays," pointed out Jamie, who was starting to look at his watch - very discreetly, bless him - every few minutes.

"Yeah, I know. But that would be the point of no return, and I've never _actually_ done it," Malcolm answered.

"There's a first for everything."

"Delete him?" asked Clara, perplexed, and a bit apprehensive.

"No Cybermen involved, don't worry," Jamie reassured her, "Well, not really. Malcolm can revoke his press accreditations, delete him from the UK Press Card registry. He would no longer be able to work anywhere."

"Is that legal?"

"Not even slightly," answered Malcolm, "I shouldn't even have access to the database, but there you go. Welcome to a post 9/11 world. It would be corrected almost immediately if I were to modify it, but Jamie's right. It might actually hold up all the way through the New Year."

Malcolm had been thinking about it for a little while, now. It was a lot more vicious in his mind than calling his wife. And it remained work-related. He disliked having to stoop so low as to copy him and attack him on a personal front.

"Right, that's it, it's five o'clock," he eventually spoke up, "Jamie, you take Steve and go home."

"We're not done."

"Yes, we are. I won't let either of you spend more time than necessary on this thing. You take the car and go home, Jamie."

"But what are you going to do?"

"I'll start by threatening to delete him. If he thinks I'm fucking bluffing, I'll do it. And then I'll go home and enjoy a nice dinner, that's it. Come on, Jamie. Steve's waiting," he told him resolutely, standing up in order to show him that he was being serious.

"How are you going to get home in this weather, you idiot?"

"I'll drive him," answered Clara before he had time to formulate a believable answer. Malcolm turned towards her, surprised.

"I'm guessing you live on this side of the river?" she added.

"Yeah, Highgate, but..."

"Good then, North. As I said earlier, it's on my way." Malcolm looked at her more closely, and he could see she was being just as serious as he was with Jamie. And he realised that the younger man wouldn't leave with his driver until he knew Malcolm would be able to get home. So he decided to follow Clara's lead, even though he would tell her not to bother once Jamie had left.

"You heard her, Jamie, it's fine. Go home."

"But you are calling Hewitt tonight, right?" Jamie was starting to put on his coat. Malcolm could tell that he had succeeded.

"Of course, I just want to have the pleasure of calling him at the last minute. That way, when he'll be forced to pull out his article, it will hurt his reputation at the rag even more," he answered, intending to do just that.

"Good. Oh, and you're coming for dinner on the 27th, right?"

"I said I would, didn't I? Now get," he told him, almost physically pushing him out of the room. "And you know, about today..."

"Yeah, you're fucking welcome, big guy. Merry Christmas and all that. You too, Clara. Have fun with the bloody Scousers."

They both wished him a merry Christmas, and soon after he had finally left, Malcolm spoke up.

"You're not driving me home."

"Of course I'm driving you home, I said I would."

"But that would mean driving all the way across the city, it's a waste of time if you want to reach the M1."

"I'm driving you home," Clara repeated, resolutely.

"Don't be st..."

"Are we actually going to have the same discussion as yesterday?" she interrupted him, starting to look a little pissed off. Malcolm remembered the discussion very well, and he guessed it would be pointless for him to argue. She was just as stubborn as him, and she probably wouldn't enjoy being out-stubborned two days in a row. So, really, he only accepted because he now knew from experience that it would make her feel better, that was all.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter (a longer one), but don't worry: I've already planned a sequel (called "Gravity") and started working on it. It will be angstier but sexier (I hope). A huge thank you to everybody who read this story. Your comments were lovely and meant a lot to me.

 

It had started snowing again. That's what Clara noticed as she looked outside Malcolm's office window. Her arms were crossed against her chest, and the room was silent. If there had been a ticking clock somewhere, or a fly stuck against a window-pane trying to escape, they would have heard it. Clara liked arguing with other people, since she often had the upper hand. With Malcolm, it often escalated to a competition, but it only meant that she enjoyed verbally sparring with him even more. Notwithstanding the fact that it often infuriated her, given that the man was undoubtedly a professional arguer. Clara didn't like losing. And Malcolm didn't either. Unfortunately, they had apparently exhausted all the possible venues for their last conversation. Which resulted in the both of them sulking in silence. Well, Malcolm was sulking. She certainly wasn't.

She wondered if she should tell him it was snowing. But she guessed that would only make him argue once more that she should leave without him. And they had already agreed that she wouldn't. Agreed was perhaps the wrong word. More like fought over. Or tore each other apart. It would be six o'clock in half an hour, which was the time Malcolm had elected to call Hewitt. This meant that Clara still had to hold on until then. And come up with new selling points. Because she knew very well that once that call would be made and that creepy journalist deleted - there was no doubt in her mind now that Malcolm would do it - he would once again find excuses to prevent her from driving him home.

Clara had never met said journalist, but she had felt positively repulsed by his article. She had read a few unflattering articles about Malcolm - that night when she couldn't sleep and had made the mistake of Googling his name - but they had never felt so... gratuitously nasty. Perhaps one day she'd find the nerve to ask him about it. But now was definitely not the time.

Jamie's call this afternoon had surprised her. Not the fact that he was calling per say, but the tone of his voice. It was the first time she had heard him sound genuinely worried about something. And that something hadn't been work related, or government related or even survival of the world related. It had been someone related. Malcolm related. She now had actual proof that the two Scots were close, and that their constant bickering was just one of the numerous facets of their friendship. There had thus been no doubt in her mind that she would come to Number 10 and help if she could. She had just dropped her dog at Martha's and hadn't felt like starting the four hour long journey to Liverpool alone in her small car. Especially if said journey took twice that time because of the snow.

At six o'clock on the dot, she sat in front of Malcolm who had stayed seated at his desk. He stared at her intently for a few seconds, perhaps finding strength in her resolve, and picked up the phone to make the call. When he put the receiver down twenty tensed minutes later, he looked at her once more, his eyes set. He hadn't glanced at her once during the whole exchange, but Clara noticed that she had unconsciously clenched her fists, and that her hands were now slightly shaking.

"So that's done," Malcolm said in a tired but resolute sigh.

"Do you think that will hold until January?" she asked, pointing at the computer he had used to delete the reporter.

"It might, we'll see," he answered evasively, clearly trying to put the last few hours behind him.

He stood up and slowly paced the room, his eyes lingering on a few objects, as though he was trying to picture one last time where everything was.

"Let's go, then," Clara interrupted his silent musing.

"Yeah, let's."

He sounded genuinely tired. Clara imagined that his day had been a pretty stressful one, even if he was used to such tension. But this had been personal, after all. And he probably hadn't caught up on all his missed hours of sleep yet.

Clara was surprised to see him follow her docilely out Number 10. He still looked lost in thought, but once they had passed the guarded gate at the entrance of Downing Street, he finally stopped in his tracks. Anticipating his reaction, she grabbed his upper arm and started walking once more.

"My car is parked a bit far, I couldn't find a spot."

He didn't reply and didn't ask her to remove her hand. The snow was falling quite heavily and Clara didn't mind walking so close to him. When they eventually reached the small alley where she had parked, it was her turn to stop, suddenly self-conscious.

"By the way, it's not an Aston Martin."

She saw Malcolm smile at that, and this time he was the one who encouraged her to push on. When they finally came in sight of her small car, they heard raised voices. A couple was arguing loudly a few yards away. Clara felt Malcolm tense, but he kept on walking towards the two people. She had no choice but to match his long strides and she didn't try to stop him, even though every fibre in her body told her that this could potentially be dangerous.

"You bitch! Why can't you shut your mouth for once?" yelled the man, who was big and domineering.

The woman held her head down, and looked quite distraught. She was shaking and crying, and kept shouting at the man to leave her alone and shut up. They both looked inebriated, but this was no excuse for him to push her around. Malcolm observed them quietly for a few seconds, and when the man looked as though he was about to strike his girlfriend - or whoever she was to him exactly - he intervened and stood between them. Clara had fortunately anticipated his move when she had felt his biceps tense under her hand, and had let go of his arm.

Malcolm pushed the man back easily, even though his opponent was clearly heavier than him. The woman sat down heavily on the snowy curb and Clara approached her. She saw that one of her eyes was swollen - their altercation had apparently been going on for a while. Clara tried talking to her, but she would only shake her head and pull at her hair.

"What d'you think y'doing, man? Get off!" the attacker screamed at Malcolm.

Now that she was closer, Clara could also tell that the man was more drunk than she had first thought. He had a hard time standing straight on the slippery pavement. He was no threat to Malcolm, despite his skinny figure. He removed his hands from the man's shoulders, but prevented him from trying to approach Clara and the crying woman.

"Piss off. You don't want to come any closer," warned Malcolm, coldly, using the couple of inches he had over him to his advantage. With his heavy black woollen coat, he definitely looked like someone who shouldn't be messed with, and the drunk man was still sober enough to notice that.

"I said fuck off!" he added, louder, and the man eventually backed down when he saw Malcolm lunge at him, looking ready to strike, although he hadn't raised a fist. He stared at him until he had no choice but to walk away, unsteadily, mumbling incoherent profanities. Only when he was no longer in sight did Malcolm turn in the women's direction. Clara saw him drop his shoulders and unclench the hands he had kept resolutely against his sides.

"Are you alright, love?" he asked the distraught woman, kneeling down on the pavement despite the snow.

Even though she hadn't reacted to anything Clara had tried to say to her, she did react when Malcolm gently took both her hands in his.

"Do you have somewhere to go tonight? Somewhere he won't find you?" he asked gently and she nodded.

"Let's find you a cab, then. Okay, love?" he added, rising up from the ground and helping her stand up.

The woman nodded again and let Malcolm lead her passively to the corner of the street where they would be more likely to find a car. He looked at Clara and made sure that she was following them closely. He kept glancing behind them, perhaps making sure that the other man wouldn't appear from a dark corner, even though Clara was pretty sure he was too incapacitated to do such a thing.

Despite the weather, Malcolm thankfully managed to hail a cab at the busy intersection. Clara saw him hand the woman more banknotes than were strictly necessary to cover her journey. She hesitated, but took them gratefully when Malcolm insisted. She didn't say a word, although Clara could tell how touched she was. The cab disappeared slowly in the snowy street.

"Merry _fucking_ Christmas," Malcolm muttered very quietly, but she still heard him.

"She'll probably run back to him in a week's time, but..." he stopped, sighed, and turned back towards Clara.

"So, your car?" he announced resolutely in a much clearer voice. Clara tried not to show how stunned she was, and bravely walked back towards the alley, Malcolm standing close beside her.

The small street was blessedly quite this time, and Clara opened her car as though nothing was amiss. She wanted to get away from this place. They would talk about this later.

"You weren't joking when you said it wasn't an Aston Martin," Malcolm said, smirking slightly, trying to diffuse the heavy atmosphere.

"Yes, but it's red," announced Clara proudly. Malcolm seemed to doubt that the colour would make her small Citroën Saxo go any faster. When he automatically walked to the left side of the car, Clara smiled genuinely for the first time since the altercation.

"Are you planning on driving, then?" she asked him.

"What? Oh, bollocks," he growled, realising that the steering wheel was on this side.

"I don't know how you manage to drive in London with that," he proclaimed, walking to the other side of the car with heavy, reluctant steps.

"I'll let you know once I've got enough money to buy a DB9, though you might have to wait for a while," she replied petulantly, sitting behind the wheel and quickly turning on the engine to defrost the windshield.

"I didn't mean the car itself. But it must be a fucking nightmare at roundabouts with the mirror on the other side," he answered, seeing that she was peeved. He had to slide the seat backwards all the way, and seemed amazed that he actually fit in the small place.

"You get used to it," she answered, shrugging.

It was quite cold inside, even though she'd put the heater on full. Thankfully, it didn't take long for the windshield to clear, and she drove away from the dark street. Malcolm looked surprised at the trusting sound the engine was making and Clara's sporty driving style, but he didn't complain. Although he did complain when they hit a small pothole and his head bumped against the ceiling.

"Sorry," she replied to his muttered profanities.

"Lucky I didn't have to sit in the backseat, I suppose. Especially since I would have to chop off my own bloody legs to fit in," he grumbled.

"Don't worry, I only make the Doctor sit there."

"Where is the blasted K-9, by the way?" he asked, looking around, as though the border-collie was hidden somewhere.

"I had to drop him at a friend's. My step-mother's allergic. Or so she says," she answered, and Malcolm wisely dropped the subject, understanding that it was a sore point.

They drove in silence for a while but unsurprisingly quickly found themselves stuck in the very slow moving traffic.

"And here we go," sighed Malcolm, rubbing his cold hands against his knees.

"You would have been stuck similarly if you'd taken a cab, there's no extra lane."

"I know, but _you_ wouldn't have been if you'd taken the A4 to reach the M1 to drive to Liverpool." Clara didn't reply. Tottenham Court Road was always a nightmare after all.

"Shall I take Camden Road or Junction Road?" she asked calmly.

"You're not there, yet" Malcolm huffed, "I'm not sure we're going to get to Hampstead Road before midnight."

Clara thought that he sounded like a bad-tempered child, and she chose to ignore him. She also resisted rolling her eyes when he started fiddling with the heater.

"Why is it so fucking cold? It should be easy to warm such a wee space."

"You could put on the radio," she suggested in a levelled voice.

"No, thank you. I don't want to hear any more bloody journalists today."

"You do know some channels actually play tunes."

"Tunes? The radio hasn't played any decent music in years."

"Saying this makes you sound about a hundred years old," she couldn't resist telling him. He looked affronted, but the car was pleasantly quite for a few minutes. They managed to crawl a mere fifty yards in that time. When they passed Goodge Street station, she told him he could take the tube, but he stubbornly refused, saying that it was her idea in the first place and that they would follow it through.

Clara hadn't needed any more proof that two very stubborn people shouldn't be locked inside a small place for too long. But she got buckets of it in the next hour. The road only cleared after Tufnell Park and Clara had been tempted more than once to suggest to Malcolm that perhaps they might go faster if he pushed the car. She had wanted to talk about that woman he had rescued and his innate understanding of her situation. Or mention the Hewitt article she felt slightly guilty for having read in his absence. But Malcolm seemed intent on preventing her from discussing anything that wasn't related to the _bloody snow_ or the _fucking incapable driver in front_ or her _sodding idea_ to drive him home in the first place. And let's not forget _how fucking cold_ her _fucking red dishwasher of a car_ was.

Needless to say, when they reached Highgate, it was close to nine o'clock and they both wanted to strangle the other passenger. It had stopped snowing, but Clara realised that at least Malcolm's presence had been a distraction. She now faced hours of driving on her own in the cold Saxo. But she had promised her father she would come, and she knew that she had no other way to reach Liverpool now, since the trains were running very sporadically and flying on such short notice was out of the question on her budget.

Malcolm's small street was very leafy and very quite. The houses were old and vast with small gardens at the front and supposedly bigger ones at the back. They probably cost a fortune to rent let alone buy, but Clara was absolutely charmed. On a normal day, it would undoubtedly take Malcolm half an hour to reach Downing Street. And yet the neighbourhood looked like busy Westminster was a thousand miles away. She understood easily why he had chosen to live in such a place.

Malcolm also seemed to realise that she still had a very long way to go tonight, and he looked slightly regretful of his behaviour in the car.

"Thanks for the lift," he said, staying seated even though Clara had been parked for a little while, now.

"You're welcome, I owed you one."

Neither seemed to know what to say or do. But with the heater off, the cold prompted Malcolm to act.

"Come on in to drink something warm," he told her. It hadn't been a question, and he had reached for his door handle already. Clara had no choice but to go out to answer him.

"I have to get on the motorway," she replied, frowning.

"Clara, it won't make much difference if you leave now or in twenty minutes. Come on, I'm freezing my arse off," he answered in a far too reasonable tone. She followed him, refusing to admit that he just had to say her name in that accent of his for her to agree.

His house was blissfully warm. Clara had the vague apprehension that if she actually sat down anywhere, she wouldn't be able to leave. The place was more inviting and luminous than she had expected. It was modern but homely and decorated with taste. He led her to the large living room at the back, which looked onto the back garden. The ground floor was actually one big open space, with all the rooms communicating, and the kitchen at the centre of everything. She sat on one of the two couches and realised that her first impression had been correct: she would have a very hard time heading back to her car.

"Tea? Coffee?" he asked.

"Do you have cocoa powder?" she answered, surprising herself.

But Malcolm looked less startled than she had expected, and got a yellow Nesquik tin from his cupboard, the kind usually meant for children. Clara resisted from commenting, since a cup of Nesquik sounded just about divine, at the moment. Malcolm joined her on the couch once the hot chocolate was ready. They both enjoyed the warm beverage and managed to resist making any crack about little kids or old ladies.

Feeling better, Clara took off her heavy coat, and as Malcolm went to hang it up in the entryway, she realised that it was one more step in the not-leaving-anytime-soon direction. Just as she was contemplating the idea of resting her eyes for a few seconds, her mobile rang. She thought about not answering, but eventually rummaged through her bag and picked it up. It was her dad. Malcolm seemed to understand who it was, and deemed it a good time to go upstairs.

Wen he came down ten minutes later in his shirt-sleeves, having discarded his grey cashmere sweater, he noticed Clara's unhappy mood.

"Everything okay?" he asked, clearly seeing that it wasn't.

Clara paced the living room, unknowingly copying his usual behaviour in stressful situations. She looked at him, seeing how relaxed he seemed in his own home. He probably wanted to unwind and get some well-earned rest, she realised. And tomorrow was Christmas - he must have plans with his own family. He didn't need to be burdened by her issues. He dealt with other people's issues all the time and deserved a break.

"Yes, fine," she lied easily, "I should go."

"Was that your father on the phone? Do they still have snow up in Liverpool?" he insisted, standing in the kitchen and thus blocking her way.

"Nope, no more snow, but it will still take me a while to reach it, so I really should leave now."

"Funny, because I just saw online that the M6 was blocked North of Birmingham," he told her, smirking slightly.

The _bastard_ , of course he checked online. He probably had a computer in every bloody room of the house.

"I guess I'll stay on the M1, then."

"That'll only take you to Stoke," he added, visibly enjoying proving her wrong.

"Then I guess I'll stop in Stoke and wait for the M6 to re-open," she replied, hoping to put an end to the frankly childish discussion.

"And then, what will you do? In this weather, it'll probably take you about four hours to reach Stoke. Are you sure you want to be in that fucking depressing city at two in the morning?"

Not particularly, thought Clara, although she didn't say it out loud. But Malcolm could clearly read her answer on her face.

"Yeah, me neither. So what did your dad tell you on the phone?" he persisted.

" _I_ told him that I would stop on the way to get some rest and thus arrive tomorrow at a reasonable hour. So it really doesn't matter that the M6 is closed." She was getting tired of his game, and wanted to leave. But Malcolm still stood in the middle of the kitchen, with his hands in his pockets, looking very much at ease despite her irritated tone.

"Why do you have to arrive at a reasonable hour?"

"It would just be easier all around, that's all," she hedged, feeling desperately tired all of a second.

"I mean, if it were me, I'd rather sleep in a bed than a wee car," he reasoned, apparently choosing not to notice how Clara kept pacing angrily in the small space in front of him. _Why wouldn't he just stop speaking?_

"What does it matter if you arrive at silly o'clock in the fucking morning? It's your dad's place, right?"

"Because I don't have the bloody key!" she eventually told him loudly, standing very close to him now, and feeling like shoving him away. Screaming at him was the last thing she had wanted to do. And she hadn't wanted to share that particular piece of information either. Malcolm raised one eyebrow, and for once stayed silent. He searched her eyes and seemed to come to the - valid - conclusion that the fact that she didn't own a key to her father's was deeply painful to her. He understood that there was probably more to the situation, but didn't press her.

"Well, I'm making risotto. You can stay for dinner if you want. Won't make much difference now, since you're planning on sleeping on the road," he uttered resolutely, as though this had been the plan all along - and maybe it had been.

"Risotto?" she repeated dumbly.

"Yes, risotto," he answered, and started pulling plates from the cupboards, "it's nine o'clock at night on Christmas Eve, and for the first time in months I have the time to cook. So fuck it, I'm making risotto."

"Right," Clara said, completely lost. She no longer knew how she was supposed to behave in Malcolm's presence. She didn't want to be angry at him since nothing actually warranted it, but she couldn't tell what he expected from her. Should she leave now and spend a miserable night on the snowy motorway? Or should she stay and have bloody risotto?

She watched him quietly for a while, and tried to come up with a decision. He wasn't looking at her and seemed intent on his cooking. Apparently, he knew what he was doing. The way was also clear, now. Clara could walk right past him and leave the house. But she was getting less and less inclined to do so. She leaned back against the sink, and decided that for now, she just wanted to watch Malcolm Tucker make risotto. She let her eyes roam, and when they fell on his fridge, she couldn't help but blurt out:

"Are you sure you don't have any children hidden somewhere?" Malcolm turned towards her, mystified.

"What? No," he answered, but saw what she was looking at, "Oh, it's from my sister's bairns, the younger one is at the scribbling stage," he added, and went back to his cooking. Clara looked at the drawings more closely. Perhaps that was why he also had Nesquik mix.

 "And you've never been married?" she pressed on.

Malcolm turned back towards her, scowling, but he saw on Clara's face that the question mattered to her, for some unknown reason.

"No," he answered seriously, "I thought it would be obvious."

"Jamie said so, but I wasn't sure he was telling the truth."

"Why would he be lying about something like that?" Malcolm said, electing not to ask her why Jamie had felt compelled to tell her that in the first place.

"I don't know," she answered genuinely. He stared at her, puzzled, for a few more seconds, then turned back towards the stove.

"So, are you staying then?" he finally wondered out lout.

"I think so," replied Clara, and he could tell that it would be the most definite answer he'd get on the subject.

"Good, I'll open a better bottle of wine, then."

"What?"

"I need some white wine for the risotto, but since you're here, and, you know, it's bloody Christmas Eve, let's splurge," he declared, blushing so imperceptibly that Clara was sure she was imagining things.

"I guess I'm allowed one glass," she said, although she knew this was just another factor that would prevent her from actually leaving.

They'd had to clear the front room dining table before they ate. Clara guessed he usually had his meals in the kitchen. The risotto was delicious but she refrained from praising Malcolm's cooking skills too much, since she clearly embarrassed him the first time she tried. He probably didn't have the time to make dinner from scratch very often but it was something he must enjoy doing. It was indeed a great way to wash away a stressful day.

She had admired his record collection whilst he was cooking, and had gently made fun of him when she told him that good albums had been released _even_ after 1979. He had put on an old vinyl which now played quietly in the background. Duke Ellington, he had said. Clara had heard of him, of course, but she had never actually sat down and listened to his music. It sounded a lot more upbeat than anything she had imagined Malcolm Tucker would listen to. Frankly, her mind hadn't gone any further than Wagner on that subject. She enjoyed the joyful piano notes and she could tell that Malcolm was glad of that fact, given his half smirks every time her fingers unconsciously beat the tempo on the table.

They had come to a silent understanding when Malcolm had poured her a second glass of wine and she hadn't declined it. Clara wasn't going anywhere tonight, but they had wisely chosen not to acknowledge that fact out loud in order to enjoy their dinner. Just for little while they could pretend that Clara didn't need to drive all the way up to Liverpool to spend an undoubtedly awkward Christmas with her father and his second wife. And Malcolm could pretend that he hadn't come close to selling his very soul for his bloody job this afternoon.

When the record stopped, Malcolm stood up to put on the B-side and came back with satsumas.

"Sorry, I don't have anything that could be considered as desert," he told her, sheepish.

"That's fine, it's very much the season of satsumas, after all. They always make me feel like it's Christmas," Clara said, smiling, aware of the wine she had been drinking and her tiredness.

"Well, it will be Christmas shortly," Malcolm answered, refraining from eating the small fruits at his usual speed.

"You're right, it'll be midnight soon," acknowledged Clara, quickly sobering up.

They both knew they were running out of time, and that reality was bound to come crashing down around them. They could only pretend that the situation was absolutely normal for so long.

"Big plans in Liverpool for the holidays?" Malcolm eventually asked, unconcernedly.

"Not really, I don't think I'll stay there long. But it's been a while I haven't seen my dad, so..." she stopped, seeing the far-away look on his face. Perhaps now was the right time to mention what she had read in his office whilst he was talking to Jamie. Clara hesitated, but eventually realised that she might never have another opportunity.

"That article? The one you prevented Hewitt from publishing?" She could tell that he knew exactly which article she was talking about, and had known she was going to mention it even before she opened her mouth. He looked into her eyes and seemed to silently warn her that she'd better know what she was doing venturing there.

"What he said, about your father..." she pressed on, slowly, "Was it true?" she finally managed to ask in a quiet voice.

Malcolm leaned back against his chair and ran his fingers through his slightly greying hair. His eyes hadn't left hers and he pondered his answer so carefully that Clara thought that she wouldn't get any at first.

"There were many untruths, misconceptions and outright lies in that poor excuse for a fucking article," he stated calmly. "But this _particular_ piece of information... It didn't belong in that category," he eventually added, after a short pause.

He was still staring at her, and his look was harder, now. More severe. As if he was daring Clara to judge him for what he'd done.

"Do you still see him?" she asked, not backing down and holding his stare.

"No, never. But I'm told he's still around, clinging to life like a _fucking_ cancer," he muttered harshly, pulling at his hair painfully one last time before calmly resting his hands on the table. He averted his gaze and stared at his fingers instead, as though he was making sure that they weren't shaking in quite rage.

Clara stood up silently and went to stand beside his chair. She observed him closely for a minute but he wouldn't raise his head to look at her.

"That woman in the street, earlier..." she started, and he slowly turned towards her, "What you did for her, that was really brave, you know."

He huffed, and lowered his eyes once more. But Clara forced him to look back at her, resting a hand against his shoulder.

"I mean it, Malcolm," he reacted when he heard his name, "you didn't have to intervene and help her but you did, and thanks to you Christmas might be a little happier for her." He pursed his lips then smiled ruefully, clearly unconvinced.

"That has to count for something," Clara reasoned, trying to convince him that intentionally choosing not to see the silver lining in any given situation was damaging in the long run. But optimism wasn't part of Malcolm Tucker's philosophy. She still smiled ever so slightly, and when she was satisfied by what she saw in his eyes, she crossed her arms and leaned back against the table, so that they were at the same level for once.

"So, tell me, any other arrest in your record I should worry about?" she asked impishly. Malcolm smirked and no longer shied away from her stare.

"I remember a few demonstrations in my youth where I might have behaved in a way that earned me some remarks here and there but no, the arrest Hewitt found out about was the only one," he answered calmly. He thought some more about the words he'd just uttered, and Clara saw him come to an important realisation.

"But, you know... He never came back after that, he left us alone," he confided to her, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere near the front door, "So I don't think I regret being arrested for kicking his head in when I was fifteen. I wished I'd done it sooner, even, and not in front of witnesses ready to report me."

He looked back towards Clara and seemed almost stunned by his words, as though he had never expected he would actually say them out loud and in somebody else's presence.

"That has to count for something, too," she told him sincerely, echoing her previous words and smiling genuinely as she realised that he could perhaps still learn to value silver linings.

When the B-side came to an end, the silence made them both realise how tired they actually were. Clara had a hard time stopping herself from yawning as they cleared the table quietly but companionably.

"Look..." he started, once everything had been put away, "there's a guest room upstairs, and you could..."

"It's okay," she interrupted him, "I was actually thinking... Could I perhaps borrow your couch in the living room? It's bound to be more comfortable than my car seat, and I'm only planning on sleeping for a few hours."

"Oh, sure," he answered quickly, genuinely surprised. He'd probably expected her to go at once when she'd interrupted his suggestion for her to sleep upstairs.

"That way, I won't wake you when I leave," she added.

"The walls are thick, I really wouldn't mind. Are you sure you're going to be alright on the couch?" he pressed, following her to the living room.

"Are you joking? It's bigger than my bed!" she marvelled.

"So, when are you planning to get back on the road?" he asked as he rummaged through the closet in the entryway for the old duvet he knew he kept in there.

"I was thinking around six. The M6 is bound to re-open sometime in the morning, and that way I'll be in Liverpool around lunch time at the latest, I guess." He nodded and refrained from pointing out that she could stay there as long as she wanted, since it would only make her feel even more uncomfortable.

He insisted on putting on a duvet cover despite her objections and went upstairs to retrieve a pillow from the guest room. She went back to her car to pick up some clothes and toiletries, and he'd agreed not to go with her when she'd stubbornly implied that she didn't need his help. But after all, he knew his neighbourhood was perfectly safe. And he'd managed to make her stay in the end. So in his mind, he'd clearly won the most important round. Malcolm smiled slightly at this realisation.

He showed her the downstairs bathroom and told her she could take a shower upstairs if she wanted - she declined - and when she took off her boots and came to stand in front of him to wish him good night, he froze. Fortunately, Clara didn't seem to know any better than him what she was supposed to do. He was gripped by the same feeling as last night, when they'd walked her dog together and she had looked so unbearably small and beautiful. _Was it only last night?_ She glanced up at him and he saw both expectation and bashfulness in her brown eyes. He knew very well that if he played his cards right, she'd probably follow him to his own bed. And he wouldn't even feel guilty the next day, because she didn't seem to need that much of a push.

But that hadn't been what tonight had been about. If he ever took that step with her - and _God_ , he wished he wouldn't come to regret his decision not to act tonight - he wanted to be less sleep deprived. And that it happened at a time when the other participant didn't have to leave precipitately the next morning. So he smiled, put his hands in his pockets to stop himself from doing anything with them he would later regret, and said good night. She looked relieved, and perhaps a little disappointed - although that was probably only what his ego wanted to believe.

Just as he was turning the corner to reach the staircase, he heard her say his name. He was painfully aware that if she stopped him and instigated anything, his resolve would crumble at his feet in a split second.

"Merry Christmas," Clara said.

He looked dumbly at his watch and realised that midnight had just gone and past.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas."

They stared at each other intently for a little longer, then both went on their way: Malcolm to his own room, Clara to the couch. It was probably for the best. Although when Clara turned for the hundredth time under the duvet two hours later, she came to rethink her decision.

She'd seen how Malcolm had been looking at her, and she was certain that she wouldn't be rebuffed if she walked upstairs and knocked on his door. She was very tempted to act on this impulse. Clara didn't believe in fate, but she knew that the last few days had led up to the situation she now found herself in. She also knew that if she chose to take a step on that path, she wouldn't be able to take it back. Even if they indulged in a one off thing they would later be able to blame on the holiday or the snow or whatever, there could ever only be one first time.

Her priority at the moment had to be sleep. But spending more time with Malcolm Tucker - and not necessarily in his bed - came in close second. Clara wished that they could pretend that the outside world didn't exist. That they were snowed in, perhaps, and that the elements prevented her from going anywhere. It was a childish fantasy, but she chose to cling to it, and thus dreamed of ever falling snow.

The first thing she heard the next morning were padding feet and a faraway voice. She furrowed deeper in her comfortable pillow, but the voice was coming closer. It was a male voice, a bleary voice, it was... _Oh God_ , _what time was it?_ Clara reached blindly for her phone and realised that it was almost nine o'clock. Nothing dramatic - it was Christmas after all - but she _had_ told Malcolm the previous night that she would be leaving early. Earli _er_ than nine in any case. And now he clearly was on the phone with someone and thought her gone. Should she get up and show herself? Hell, he was bound to find out eventually, and the couch was just too comfortable.

"Yeah, you woke me up. I _do_ sleep sometimes, Liz," she heard Malcolm grumble.

"No, I'm fine. Work wasn't too much of a nightmare... No, really." Malcolm padded to the kitchen, and Clara guessed that he'd opened a cupboard. She closed her eyes forcefully, fearing that he would discover her presence at any moment. Apparently, he didn't, because he kept on talking to the mysterious Liz. There was then a dull sound and a whispered profanity.

"What? No, I'm making coffee... I bumped my head... You're the one who woke me, you wee devil, I need caffeine..." Clara smiled, and kept on listening. She heard mumbled grunts that probably meant yes, and the bubbling electric kettle.

"Yeah, I saw online that the roads were cleared, now... Of course I'm still driving up there, I said I would, didn't I?" The sound of water being poured, she guessed in a coffee press - there was no way Malcolm Tucker drunk instant coffee.

"If I leave after lunch, I'll be there around seven... But I like driving!" More affirmative grunts, then the wonderful smell of coffee.

"Did you manage to reach Kate? ... Well, she's your sister too, you know." Mystery solved, realised Clara, he must be talking to his sister, then. But she hadn't known he had more than one.

"Yeah, yesterday went fine..." Malcolm was apparently walking to the front room, and Clara had to strain her ears to catch what he said.

"No, Jamie and Sarah won't come for lunch, they have their bairns now, you know... I'll see them on the 27th... I _won't_ spend Christmas at work... No, I have a friend coming over." Clara was quite sure now that Malcolm couldn't possibly know she was still there.

"Don't be daft, I'm not having you on... It's just lunch, then I'm driving to Paisley... No, you can't meet her tonight... Because she has her own family thing in Liverpool..." She froze, and opened her eyes, not caring any longer that Malcolm might discover her.

"Well, yeah, of course I'm going to fuck things up... I know, that's what you always say... Thanks, sis... Yes, I'll see you this evening... Tell them I promise to be there before they have to go to bed... You too, bye Liz."

Clara didn't hear anything else for a little while. Then Malcolm walked presumably back towards the staircase, but he stopped abruptly.

"What the f..."

A few strides and he appeared in the living room just as Clara was rising up from the couch. He looked comically dumbstruck, and she couldn't help but smile at his wild eyes and equally wild hair.

"I didn't leave," she supplied unnecessarily.

"Yeah, I saw your coat, and..." he started, then seemed to realise that he was still holding his coffee cup and decided to take a sip, perhaps hoping to find the end of his sentence there.

"You know, I was thinking I might actually take you up on that shower offer. Is that okay?" she interrupted, knowing the caffeine hadn't kicked in yet.

"Shower offer? Oh, yeah, sure, I'll make some, uh..."

"No, I'll make something this time, don't worry. But I wouldn't mind some coffee," Clara announced in a flourish, passing his unmoving form on her way to the staircase.

"Right," he muttered resolutely, knowing that he could at least handle making more coffee.

When Clara came down fifteen minutes later, Malcolm had also found the time to change from his pyjama trousers and T-shirt. She was almost disappointed. But he still looked slightly disheveled and bleary eyed.

"Clara, the phone call..." he started, having visibly only thought about this particular subject since she'd gone up.

"Your sister, right? Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she said, opening the fridge to make sure that he indeed had all the necessary ingredients.

"I didn't know you were still there when I told her..."

"I was thinking about making a soufflé," Clara declared, looking around the kitchen and opening cupboards until she found the flour.

"A soufflé?" he repeated, frowning, and she was reminded of the previous night when he announced he was making risotto out of the blue. _Fitting_ , then.

"Yeah, you've got all the ingredients. I'm good with soufflés and they work great for brunch," she continued, as if nothing was amiss.

"Right."

Clara turned back towards him, and took the cup of coffee he had been holding out to her ever since she'd arrived in the kitchen.

"You like soufflés?" He nodded, but was still frowning.

"Good. I think I'll just put cheese in it, I saw you had Parmesan," Clara paused, thoughtful, "It was my mother favourite recipe, you know? She made chocolate ones for me, but I could tell she preferred the savoury ones."

Malcolm stayed silent, but observed her closely, realising that this was important for her.

"We used to make soufflés on Wednesdays when I was little - you don't have school on that day in France. It was just the two of us, since my dad was at work. So Wednesday was soufflé day. And I just realised this morning that it was a Wednesday, today, and I haven't made a soufflé on a Wednesday in a long time."

"Well, a soufflé's fine by me," he told her, smiling a bit sadly.

"Is your mum still alive?" Clara asked, seeing on Malcolm's face that he already knew about her own mother. They probably had files on all government employees at Number 10, after all.

"No, she died when I was twenty-one," he replied quietly, "It was tough for Liz, my little sister, but Kate was there."

"Kate's your older sister?"

"Yeah, she's three years older than me, and Liz's four year younger," he confirmed.

"I wish I had siblings growing up," she mused, "but I had a very happy childhood, all things considered."

Clara cooked in silence for a while, and Malcolm lingered in the background. He had tried offering his help but she'd told him that everything was under control. He trusted her, and Clara enjoyed the feeling.

"It has to cook for about 25 minutes, is that okay? You're not late, are you?" she asked, sounding unsure for the first time that morning.

"No, don't worry, it's not even ten yet. I hadn't planned on leaving until twelve," he paused, and hesitated, "What about you? Have you decided not to go?"

"Well, as much as I dislike my step-mother, I did promise my dad I would come, so I will. But I thought arriving sometime in the afternoon would be enough. It's Christmas after all, and I... I really wanted to bake a soufflé." Clara hadn't intended to finish her sentence like that. She'd meant to tell him that she had just wanted to spend some more time with him, but she hadn't found the courage to say so. Seeing the small, grateful smile on his face, though, she wondered if maybe he had been able to read between the lines.

The soufflé wasn't burnt, and the improvised brunch was a success. It didn't feel awkward, and they'd managed to share other happy Christmas memories. They both had some, and Clara was glad of that fact. Malcolm's mother sounded like someone she would have loved to meet.

When Clara stood on the steps outside to say goodbye, she realised that no matter how dreadful the rest of her Christmas holidays turned out to be, she'd still have _this_ happy memory. Spending time with a friend and sharing home cooked meals. That was more than enough. Although when she glanced up at Malcolm and felt him kiss her forehead and stroke her cheeks already reddened by the cold, she knew for certain that she would soon make new and better memories with him.

 

 

 


End file.
